


фотография

by iwritetragediesnotsin



Category: Spiderman - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassins & Hitmen, Black Widow - Freeform, Dark Peter, Dark Peter Parker, Hydra Peter Parker, Red Room, Spiderman AU, Super Soldier, Tom Holland Spiderman, dark!may parker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 23,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetragediesnotsin/pseuds/iwritetragediesnotsin
Summary: Peter Parker has been missing since the age of six, when he was kidnapped from the Stark Expo that he attended with his aunt and uncle. Since then, he has become one of the world’s most feared assassins, known as Noir, controlled by the Red Room. Eleven years later, Peter returns to New York with one mission: To kill Tony Stark. Soon, he finds himself running into old friends, reuniting with former allies and enemies to fight, and the secret that he has been denying for as long as he can remember will be revealed
Comments: 63
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

He stared up at the skyscraper, the strange beak at the top almost reminding him of a bird and the glowing 'A' that stood of the avengers bringing back memories he didn't know he had. He shied away from his reflection, the tall stranger in the brown jacket with the black hat and sunglasses. He looked normal for once. The bluetooth in his ear crackled, and he discreetly brushed his hair back, nudging it with his thumb. 

“Noir, you have eyes on the location. Do you wish me to take photos?” The mechanical voice of his artificial assistant echoed in his ear. He frowned, taking a few photos with the glasses on his face. 

“Yes, Karine.” He answered back briskly, walking away before he could attract suspicion. Looking around, he almost smiled. New York was still the same, still as loud and dirty as before. A rat ran out of a trash bag on the side of the road next to a bus stop, victoriously squeaking over the noise. 

But when was before? He didn’t remember. Flashes of a long lost waltz, a flicker of a woman’s laughter, and the smell of old books haunted his mind. All he could recall was a flicker of light and waking up in a nightmare full of blood and sharp teeth. 

“Peyta, you must not be distracted.” The AI chided him in Russian. Peyta rolled his eyes and grinned at a few girls walking by. He grabbed the fake cell phone that was in his pocket, pulling it up to his ear to disguise the fact that he was talking to himself. 

“Of course. I am not an amateur” He replied, ducking into an alley where he stripped off the jacket. Pulling off the hat, he tucked it under his arm, resting the sunglasses on the neckline of his t-shirt. He then unbuttoned the cuffs to his long sleeved blue button-down and rolled them up, flinching at the scars that it exposed. Popping the collar, he then moved on, deftly plucking the pins out of his hair. Pulling off the blond wig, Peyta exposed his brown hair, messing it up to appear more natural. He picked up the jacket, pushing the hat into a secret pocket and taking out the discrete revolver and placing it into his waistband. 

Peyta exited the damp space, ducking into the sidewalk, and melding into pedestrian traffic. He was invisible, a different person, a regular seventeen year old instead of the assassin and killer that he had been turned into. 

“Noir,” The comms sparked. He winced at the feedback, pressing his ear. “The mission file suggests that you return to your location.” He gave a non-commital grunt, turning sideways to brush past an old man. Turning off the communication, Peyta cursed to himself. He had felt a tingling on his spine that had always warned him about danger. Glancing over his shoulder, the assassin saw the old man he had walked past look up and make eye contact. The man’s eyes were a bright blue and his face easily was recognizable to Peyta.

“Captain America.” He breathed out, almost frozen in place. He gave the veteran a mimed tip of an invisible hat and a devilish grin before breaking into a light jog. Not daring to glance over his shoulder, he entered a small convenience store, hoping to alleviate any suspicion that had been thrown on him. 

“Hello!” He greeted the owner with a smile, gathering up a few pieces of fruit and an energy bar before dumping them all on the counter. The darker man with a salt and pepper beard gave him a smile after giving him a scrutinising look, greeting him and asking questions.

“What’s a nice kid like you doing here and not in school?” Peter grinned at him, his fingers nervously tapping on his jeans below the counter. Carefully avoiding any trace of an accent that could identify him, he responded, terse. 

“Work.” The store owner nodded absentmindedly, scanning the items. Finally, he was handed the light plastic bag with a smile. Checking to make sure all of his items were there, Peyta gave the man a disarming smile, calling for him to have a nice day. The bell over the door rang and then stopped, the small store quiet. 

He quickly pressed a few buttons on the phone on the counter, picking it up and listening to it ring. 

“C’mon, May! Pick up!!!” He groaned, listening to the dial tone. 

“May Parker.” A woman’s exhausted voice came over the phone. 

“Hey,” The store owner replied, relieved. “It’s Delmar. Say, how old would Peter be now?”

She gave a small ‘hm’ before responding. “He would be about seventeen.” Her voice was choked, nostalgic. “Why?”

Delmar frowned, looking out the door. “Cause this kid came in who looks just like him.” 

\-------

It was night now, and Peyta was outside of the tower. That was his MO, though most people hadn't realised it yet. People were weak during the night, most safe and relaxed in their own homes. So he had become Noir. He had hacked into the AI system in the building, inserting his name as a low level intern to gain access to the building. After he had been cleared, he would enter and gain access to the top of the tower through the ventilation system. There, he would administer a odorless knockout gas. 

Peyta couldn’t have chosen a better time. He had been tracking the avengers for weeks, tailing everyone to see who would be in the tower at certain times. At that moment, only Sam Wilson, Bruce Banner and his target were in the apartment. Of course, other avengers could be in the building, but he promised himself that he would be outside before that became a problem. 

The trained killer entered the building inconspicuously, scanning a printed badge from the local library like he had been doing it for months, making sure to adjust the straps of his backpack as if they were riding uncomfortably on his back. 

“Paul Stone.” The AI announced his arrival. “Level one intern.” He smiled up at the ceiling displaying the photo of him in a fitting red wig, a nervous look clearly shown on his face. It had been easy to get a photo at the local pharmaceutical walgreens, claiming it was for his passport. Then, he had quickly downloaded a copy onto a flashdrive behind the employee’s back and used Karine to implant it into the system. 

“Evening.” The front desk receptionist’s voice had a monotone and bored voice. He gave her a charming smile. 

“Good evening.” Making sure not to draw any attention, Peyta entered the elevator, the glass pane behind him showing the city still bustling as New York’s streets were crowded with tourists and people trying to get home. He opened his phone, accessing Karine’s software that would allow it to look as if F.R.I.D.A.Y had glitched and lost control over the security programs. Quickly typing a few things into the malware, Peyta set it running. The elevator doors made a dinging noise and he almost disembarked before realising that it wasn’t his intended floor. 

“Hey!” A cheery voice greeted him. He gave a tense smile to the boy who had just entered. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Ned. I intern under Sam. Are you one of Bruce’s? What’s your name?”

“Paul.” Peyta nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. This boy looked about his age, and the assassin sized him up as Ned began to chatter away about projects, work, as well as these things called… laygoes and Star Wars. What were… laygoes? Peyta wondered to himself before mentally kicking himself for being distracted. 

Ned was wearing a sweatshirt and loose tee. He didn’t appear to be muscular, and he still retained baby fat on his face. Peyta didn’t see him as a person to watch out for, but appearances could always betray their true deceit. The elevator dinged for floor three, and he disembarked, giving an apologetic smile to Ned, who gave him a pang of nostalgia. 

With a face like stone, Peyta quickly pulled out a pair of gloves from his pocket with a screwdriver and dismantled the vent. He grabbed the metal covering before it could fall and placed it to the side, picking it up and replacing it. The phone in his pocket buzzed, indicating the twenty minute blackout was done. He grinned, army crawling toward the penthouse. 

Peyta reached the shaft that he could use to reach the 70th floor. From there, he could have to make his way to the south west quadrant where he could use another shaft to bring him up the other twenty three. 

Giving a small smirk, he pulled out his favorite piece of tech: the wrist web shooters that he had kept secret. They were inspired by spiders and the chemical design of their webs. Spiders were small, useful, and many people overlooked them. They laid traps and then went for the kill.

Angling his wrists upward, he heard the familiar twang of the webs connecting and sticking to the top of the web. Pulling downward, he let the elasticity and momentum pull him up. His gloves allowed him to stick to the wall and slow down. Cutting the web, Peyta collected it back, careful not to leave even the tiniest bit of evidence he had ever been there. 

Crawling forward even more, the trained boy mentally reviewed his plan, the adrenaline pumping in his veins. He began removing his wig once he was sure he was in a safe place, starting the tech that transformed his face into that of Clint Barton. He then meshed his outfit, making sure that it was different from the one he had worn as Paul. Peyta nodded to himself before releasing the webs that would bring him upwards. He repeated the same motions of sticking to the wall and catapulting himself into the other vent, tucking into a roll and then flattening his body. 

Peyta then pulled out a small cylindrical device that looked like a bathbomb. When touched with potassium chloride, it would quickly dissolve, leaving only an odorless gas that would make everyone in the apartment fall asleep. Attaching the gas mask to his face so it covered his mouth and nose, he activated the device with a prick of his finger, dropping it into the room below where it landed with a small plop into the cushions. 

Staying silent, Peyta waited until it was finished and made sure it was undiscovered before dropping down from a different vent. He removed the gas mask, careful to make sure he didn’t remove his disguise. He touched his throat to make sure that the modulator wasn’t disturbed, in case he did run into someone. He made his meticulous way to Tony’s workroom, finding the billionaire undisturbed and snoring. An indignant beeping noise came from the corner, and he glanced over to see a faceless robot, who he then disabled in a few seconds. 

Rolling Tony over to better access the arteries on his neck, Peyta felt a multitude of emotions. Nostalgia, sadness, and anger. It felt like a part of him had reawakened. He knew this man, he knew that he did. Maybe not personally, but his past self did. He felt the ghost of a light beam shoot past him, and all of a sudden, he was back at the Stark Expo.

He blinked a few times, unaware of what his feelings of weakness were coming from. Breathing heavily, he injected Tony with the syringe. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Barton, but what are you doing?” A pleasant female voice spoke up. It was FRIDAY. Peyta smiled conspiratorially. 

“Don’t worry, Fri.” He mock whispered, holding up the needle with the clear liquid. It was a special toxin of his own design, with almost the same chemical makeup as saline, so it would appear harmless. However, there was cyanide in there as well, which would help to slow down the mitochondria in the victim’s cells and eventually stop his or her heart. 

“It’s saline. Bruce told me that it hurt like a bitch when injected directly into the muscle.” Quiet laughter came from the speakers. “Don’t tell him it was me, okay? It’s my newest prank.”

Friday agreed, and with a pop, she quieted down and vanished. Peyta gave a slow exhale, relaxing his muscles slightly. Once the solution was emptied, he put the needle back in his pocket and exited the apartment. Smiling wide, the talented villain put on a happy-go-lucky facade and entered the elevators. He was almost clear, until the doors opened and a red haired woman walked in. 

It was Natalya Romanova, one of the most talented spies he had heard about since he was younger- since he could remember. She was his idol in almost every way. Peyta gave a small hint of a smile under his mask. 

“Hey, Clint.” She greeted him. 

“What’s up?” He responded, his heart beating wildly. If he could fool Black Widow, he would be worshipped by his instructors. If not, he was going to die. 

“Tony has me on paperwork.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you believe it?”

He gave an unbelieving scoff, praying that this would help him. 

“I’m going to get food, you want any?” He found himself slipping back into a comfortable New York accent, but he didn’t quite know where it came from. Natalya shook her head and he grinned back at her. The doors dinged, and he exited, calling over his shoulder. 

“Well, text me if you want anything!”

Exiting the building, Peyta waited in an alley for a few minutes, letting the adrenaline pump away until his muscles were tired and sore. He removed his gloves, his mask and his jacket, flipping it inside out to become a plain winter one and put the red wig back on his head. 

“Mission complete.” He pressed a button on his comm. Thousands of miles away, a man gave a devilish smile before a computer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, guys, over 50 views in the first day? Wow. I can't believe it. Thanks so much. Due to someone's comment and my lack of research, I have changed Peter's assassin name from Night Prowler to Noir. Sorry bout that and thanks for letting me know!! 
> 
> Also, Peter's a bit OOC, but you cannot tell me that he wouldn't be smooth as Nat. I'm planning on using that too. Disaster bi and smooth mf.
> 
> Tony's delusion is inspired by the opening of Dysentery world from The Trail To Oregon by Starkid. I had a fun time writing it when I was supposed to be doing other things.

Tony Stark was feeling odd. He hadn’t felt this odd since the 90’s. Holding his fingers out, he looked them over, wiggling them slightly. They looked blurry, and his mouth dropped open as he watched them grow feathers and turn into red and gold bird’s wings. 

“Pepper!!” He called, violently jerking his fingers. “Ohhhh Pepper, I’ve got wings!!!” 

Pepper Potts entered the room to find her boyfriend flapping his arms and running around like a three year old. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Grabbing him by his shoulders, she felt his forehead, which was practically flaming. His olive skin was clammy, his pupils were dilated, and his face was flushed. His breathing was slow and shallow. 

“Really, Tony? How long did you stay in that lab?” She called out to Steve, who had just entered the living room, holding a mug of coffee. Steve’s eyes went wide as he took in the scene.  
“Golly.” He said, watching Tony jerk himself around before the billionaire noticed him. 

“Capsicle!” Tony cried. “You have wings too!” His voice became higher and higher until he sounded like a balloon losing air. Cap looked at Tony, who was valiantly struggling against Pepper’s tight grip- he was losing- and then looked at the exasperated blonde woman who had to put up with him. 

“He’s delirious.” She explained. “Can you take him down to Bruce, please?” Pepper looked so tired and hopeful that Steve couldn’t say no. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he glanced over and assessed the situation. Reaching forward, he took Pepper’s place. She gratefully left, calling back over her shoulder to him. 

“Oh, and Steve?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t hesitate to use any force necessary.” He gave her a humorous smile, pulling Tony over his shoulders for a fireman’s carry as the man wiggled even more. These, however, didn’t seem voluntary, like he was trying to fly. These were violent, and they rocked Cap back and forth as he boarded the elevator. He grunted as he tried to keep Tony still, holding down his shoulder in an attempt to stop the convulsions. 

“Oh dear.” Bruce commented in a monotone as Steve tiredly plopped Tony down on the resting table. “Hold his shoulders down. This looks like a seizure.”

“Heyyyy Brucie boyyyyyyy.” Tony slurred, his arms moving violently. 

“Hi Tony.” Bruce replied distractedly, holding his shoulders down. Tony’s lips were turning blue, and Steve began to panic. 

“Why are his lips turning blue, Bruce?! Why are they turning blue?! Are they supposed to be blue?!!!!” 

“I don’t know, but you need to calm down.” Steve immediately complied unthinkingly, sitting down in the chair in the corner. Bruce twisted his mouth, quickly grabbing a blue device that he injected into Tony’s bloodstream to knock him out. He went still, and Bruce then gathered his pipettes and syringes to gather a blood sample from Tony. 

“What are you doing?” Steve quietly piped up from the corner. Bruce shook his head to indicate that he would explain later as he watched the slow moving dark red liquid move through the tubes. Stopping it when two were full, he put Tony on an IV and inserted a sample into the processing system. As the computer beeped, the tension in the room rose. 

Steve began to get jittery, his foot rocking back and forth on his crossed legs, and Bruce began pacing as he resisted yelling at the computer to run faster. Finally, the program stopped and F.R.I.D.A.Y’s voice came over the speaker. 

“You might want to look at this, doctor.”

Bruce practically ran over, scanning over the screen with horror. 

“Cyanide poisoning.” The computer read. “89% chance of death”

Steve fainted.  
\-----

Peyta sat on the squeaky bed, his arms propping his head up as he waited for the devastating news of Tony Stark’s death. His communicator dinged, and he eagerly opened the message. Scanning the Russian characters, his heart dropped down to his stomach. 

The directive had come straight from his inside source. He quickly jumped out of bed and pulled on a shirt and his wig. Paul Stone wasn’t supposed to have any friends and while the bored teenager at the front desk might not care, he couldn’t take any chances. Peyta was invisible, and he was supposed to blend in, like the colour black in the night. 

“Noir.” Karine’s voice came through his comm. “There are armed men approaching from about a block away.”

“Weapons?” Peyta asked, pulling on his red wig and packing up whatever things he had left around the room. He stripped the sheets, putting anything that might hold any chance of DNA or fingerprint identification in his small briefcase. 

“Rifles.” She informed him. “I believe that they are SHIELD officers.” 

Peyta swore, surveying the room for any other objects he might need to take. When it was determined there was nothing else, he put his pistol into his waistband, and covered it up with his jacket. Grabbing his bag, Paul Stone walked down the stairs at a tense and leisurely pace, trying not to attract suspicion. 

“Hey, man.” He greeted the bored teenager whose name tag proclaimed him ‘Abe’. Dropping the keycard on the desk. 

“Just want to check out.” Abe gave a noncommittal grunt, typing a few things into his computer. 

“Did you find everything to your satisfaction?” He didn’t sound like he cared, but Peyta smiled anyway and nodded, trying not to seem like he was rushing. His muscles tensed and he felt his hand drift towards his gun out of instinct as the familiar tingle of danger and adrenaline ran up his spine.

“Okay, you’re all checked out. Have a nice day.”

“You too, Abe.” He smiled again and began making his way to the door, checking for any agents in the trees as he left. A man in a grey suit walked past him, greeting him with a smile, and before the doors closed, Peyta was able to hear his name. 

“Phil Coulson? I’m checking in.”

Walking just a bit faster, he put his hand in his pocket to access his quick switchblade disguised as a pen. Rolling his neck, Peyta pretended to take in the sights. There was no way this was a coincidence. Someone had to have tracked him down. Without watching where he was going, he found himself bumping into a blonde woman on the street. 

“Oh!” She exclaimed. “I’m so sorry.” Quickly helping him up and trying to gather his belongings off the street, she continued apologizing, but she stopped when she caught a look of Peyta’s face.

“Peter?” She asked. He cocked an eyebrow. 

“Sorry, ma’am, I think you might have me confused with someone else.”

She smiled ruefully, shaking her head. “You’re right. He doesn’t even have red hair. I’m Gwen, by the way.”

“Don’t worry about bumping into me. It’s my own fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Lucky that I wasn’t or else I would have crashed into a beautiful lady like yourself.” She blushed as Peyta laid into the charm, winking as he picked up his bag. He tried to ignore the deja vu he received at the name Peter.

“You have a nice day, ma’am.” Continuing on his way, he moved more quickly, with two fingers in his pocket instead of all of them, so in case he did run into anyone again, he could bring his hand out for balance. Gwen did seem familiar though, and he didn't like how it felt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, now my English class believes that I'm planning to poison someone with cyanide. Two updates in one day- I hope you all enjoy this. It's not like I have anything else to do now like write other stories. Geez. Please check out my friend's crackfic, Who Let The Interns on Twitter.

Phil Coulson was having a terrible day. First, the informant he was supposed to meet in the small motel in Brooklyn about Kingpin skipped out on him, and secondly, he received a call from his boss, who informed him that Tony Stark had just been poisoned. 

So, Phil rushed over to the Avengers tower and joined Happy in a room where they surveyed camera footage. There was nothing interesting, and they were beginning to tire after two hours, until something happened. 

“The cameras shut off in the entire building around nine o’clock last night.”

“Could just be a glitch.” Happy offered. “Happens all the time.”

“It’s the only lead we have.” Phil insisted. “We have to follow it.” 

Sighing, Happy complied, the worried look on his face betraying his calm demeanor. Phil didn’t particularly care for Tony, neither did he get along with him well, but he didn’t want the billionaire to die. He was useful, in terms of information, technology and… sometimes as a drinking buddy. But that wasn’t why Phil cared. Or at least, he tried to convince himself it wasn’t the reason. 

“Who’s this?” He pointed to the redheaded boy that entered through the scanner. “Can you ID him?” Happy pulled up the card being swiped and F.R.I.D.A.Y’s identification. 

“He was recognised as a Mr. Paul Stone, age seventeen, level one intern, Director Coulson.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said cheerily. 

“Was he seen exiting? Who does he work with?” Phil asked, watching Happy type furiously. 

“I’ve never seen him before.” Happy admitted, scanning the information on the digital badge. “There’s no information on him aside from his clearance level and this address. Hey, F.R.I., did he leave?”

“It does not appear that Mr. Stone left the building.” Phil poked Happy over to take over the computer and CCTV system to check where this “Paul” character had gone into. 

“Who left the building around nine thirty last night, F.R.I?” Happy asked, watching Phil scan the footage. 

“Various doctors, employees, interns, and Mr. Barton.” Happy’s brow furrowed. 

“What’s wrong with that?” Phil asked. 

“Clint is visiting his family.” They shared the same panicked look, and began looking through the footage. The imposter left the quarters as soon as the cameras turned back on, with no explanation as to how he had entered.

“Pardon me, Director Coulson, but I had an interaction with Clint that night.” Friday chimed in. “He used a syringe to inject a clear liquid that he claimed was saline. He said it was a practical joke.” Happy sighed, placing his head in his hands. Phil bit his cheek and continued to watch the picture.

“He’s wearing a high tech mask. It allows you to take on a person’s appearance.” Phil commented. He paused it and pointed at the pouser’s chin. 

“See? There’s a glimpse of a different skin tone.” Happy nodded, and they watched as he boarded the elevator. Soon, Natasha entered a few floors later. Eerily enough, she carried on a conversation with him, and they watched, wide-eyed, as she allowed him out of the elevator with a smile. 

“She didn’t notice?” Happy cried. “What?!”

“This guy is good.” Phil said, reaching for his hip flask and taking a swig. He glanced at his wrist watch. Three hours had passed. Frowning, Director Coulson looked back at the red haired boy named Paul. Gasping and clapping his hand to his forehead, Phil began to groan. 

“I ran into him earlier at the motel!” He exclaimed, letting his head drop to the desk. He took another gulp of the whiskey in his flask, wincing at the bitter taste. 

“I’m going to talk to Bruce about Tony.” Happy said, pushing himself up and out of the chair and walking away with a wary look towards the S.H.I.E.L.D. director. 

\---  
Bruce rushed over to the oxygen tank in the corner, placing the mask over the man’s mouth. Looking around, he contemplated using activated charcoal to get the cyanide out if it had been ingested. 

“Bruce!” Happy cried, running into the infirmary. “It was injected using a needle!” 

Bruce paused, looking at the head of security with a mollified expression. Happy struggled to explain, 

“Pardon?” He asked, looking down at the small brick of activated charcoal in his head. Happy panted, his hand on his knees and looked down at the floor. 

“Fake Clint…” He gasped. “Used syringe… Said it was a prank….” With that Happy passed out, and Bruce looked around at the three unconscious men and sighed, wondering where his life had gone. 

\---  
Bucky walked over to the fridge and opened it. Grinning, he grabbed a purple plum and took a giant bite. Meandering over to the couch, the veteran sat down and opened his book. He had only gotten through the first chapter when he was interrupted by Bruce. 

“Vision!!!” Bruce cried, running into the apartment. Bucky’s plum fell out of his mouth in surprise and he glowered at Bruce sourly for ruining his fruit. The red humanoid entered, wearing a look that would have appeared natural on anyone else, but it seemed as if Vision had practiced it into the mirror so many times that it had become a shadowy reflection, jerky and fake. 

“Yes, Dr. Banner?” Vision asked in the same calm voice as F.R.I.D.A.Y. as Banner grabbed him in my shoulders. Bucky watched the animatronic panic set into Vision’s face. Natasha strolled in at the moment as well, pausing and closing her butterfly knife slowly. 

“What’s going on?”

“It appears, Ms. Romanov, that Tony has been administered with a potentially lethal dose of cyanide.” Vision said, his voice lilting. Nat dropped her knife in shock, picking it back up and looking around with a weirdly sheepish look, as if she was trying to gauge if someone had seen her. Bucky winked and she scowled at him.   
“Have you given him the hydroxocobalamin?” Vision asked, still seeming calm. Banner shook his head and ran out quickly. Vision shook his head sadly. 

“Poor Tony.” 

“How is that… hydroxo-thing going to help him?” Bucky spoke up. Vision turned to him in one fluid movement, the gold cape behind him barely moving. 

“The hydroxocobalamin will detoxify cyanide by binding with it to produce nontoxic vitamin B-12. This medication neutralizes cyanide at a slow enough rate to allow an enzyme called rhodanese to further detoxify cyanide in the liver, Mr. Barnes.” 

“Ah.” Bucky didn’t dare comment further. Natasha turned to Vision. 

“Have you seen Clint?” She asked. Vision gave her a stoic blink that was most likely meant to portray confusion. 

“I am afraid not, Ms. Romanov. I was under the impression that Mr. Barton was visiting his family this week.”

“But I saw him last night!” Natasha said, now looking contemplative. “He seemed a little bit off, but I assumed that was because he was recovering from his cold. You know, that’s probably why he wanted to get shwarma!” 

The last phrase was sarcastic, in only the tone that Natasha and Vision could master. However, the worry and shock in her eyes betrayed her worry. She was shaken by the fact that an imposter had been in her midst and she hadn’t noticed. After all, it wasn’t like Clint could teleport. 

“Who was he anyway?” She asked before Phil Coulson burst into the door, his tie and suit askew. 

“Natasha. We need your help.” With a single cocked eyebrow from the famed spy, he hastened to continue. “Red alert.”

Without a word, Natasha’s face paled and she quickly followed Phil out of the room. Natasha’s expertise was needed on a subject that she detested, for it seemed that the Red Room was active once more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I know what I want to do, I know who I want the villain to be, but how do I make them the villain?
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: Yes, Ben is still alive. In the comics, Ben is killed by a burglar, specifically one that Spidey refused to stop. So, since Peter was never Spidey in this one, Ben is still alive because he never ran into the thief. ALSO, Civil War did happen, and I'm not quite sure how to address that yet, but we'll see.

“What on earth is going on?” Natasha asked as Phil basically dragged her into a small security room. “You’re not trying to kidnap me again, are you?”

“Please- with all these cameras and plenty of witnesses? Do you really think so little of me?” Phil replied distractedly, pressing keys on the computer. 

“Yes.” She said, sitting down in a lukewarm chair and placing her feet up on the desk next to a cold mug of coffee. To the untrained eye, the stunning, auburn-haired woman would have seemed nonchalant, but to Phil Coulson, he could tell that she was tense. 

As soon as they had entered the dark conference room that he and Happy had been using to examine the camera footage, she was looking around- at the windows, doors, all possible methods of escape. Phil sighed, and pressed play. 

“Wait..” She paused it as Paul Stone entered the building. “He looks familiar.”

She narrowed her eyes and used the mouse to zoom into the pixelated footage. The boy was looking straight into the camera, and they could see an almost devilish look on his face. He had a heart shaped face, with a sharp chin and wide blue eyes- almost unnaturally blue, the colour of ice.

“Contacts and a wig.” Natasha determined after a minute, but the feeling of deja vu was still there, ringing in her ears. How did she know this person? They had an innocent looking face, but she knew the spark of a murderer in their eyes when she saw it. After all, she used to have the same glint once. 

\---

Peyta had been walking around for an hour or so, before he finally decided to duck into Penn Station and buy himself a ticket to somewhere in Jersey. Charming the teller, he bought a ticket on the dover lines, where it would take him through different towns. While doing this, he filled the time with inane chatter about going to visit his uncle, sure that the underpaid worker would loosen her mouth to the Avengers and whoever came later with a little bit of cash, just to lay down a fake trail.

However, he entered the bathroom in a crowd of other teenagers, chatting and smiling with strangers to blend in, and quickly took off his disguise in the toilet, leaving with the same group. After doing this, he exited the station and grabbed the subway to Queens, leaving several trails that would hopefully take them a few days to unravel. 

With his luck, Peyta could get a different hotel room under another fake name and keep the tin soldiers off of his back until he was able to get back to Russia. But Peyta had never had the best luck, so of course, he ran into a police officer when leaving the subway station. 

“Woah there, buddy!” The man cried, steadying Peyta by his shoulders. Peyta surveyed him as a possible threat, tensing and trying not to reach for his weapon. Thankfully, he had made sure to appear non-threatening by wearing a large sweatshirt and grey sweatpants that swamped his form. 

“I’m Officer Benjamin Parker. Are you okay, son?” His smile was kind, and Peyta received a shock of remorse at the name. Shaking it off, he shook his head and shot a smile to Ben. 

“Y-yeah.” He stuttered slightly. “I’m good. Thanks.” Peyta patted his shoulder, walking away, making sure to put a skip in his step. Ben watched the boy jog away, his eyebrows furrowed. He looked almost identical to Richard had when he was a teen, but his eyes were like Mary’s. But that boy couldn’t have been Peter. Peter was gone, and he had been for more than a decade. 

\---

Ben Parker entered the small apartment in Queens, smiling at his wife, May, who was unpacking styrofoam containers of Thai from their favourite restaurant. Dropping his coat on the coach, he nearly collapsed, groaning. 

“Long day?” May called jokingly. 

“The longest in a while.” He responded, looking at the photos on the wall. A specific one caught his eye. It was a photo of May and Peter, outside of the Stark Expo. Why they kept it, he didn’t know. 

“May?” He asked tentatively, knowing she didn’t like to talk about this topic.

“Yes?”

“When was the last time you thought about Peter?” May pursed her lips, tensing on the knife in her hand. 

“Each time I see a boy around his age.” She said. Ben sighed, running his hand over his face. May resumed plating their dinner, placing them on the dinner table. He got up, groaning at his sore back and began eating. “Why do you ask?”

This was a dangerous question. Ben knew that. May had been devastated by Peter’s disappearance, blaming Tony Stark for years. He was there one moment, chattering away about science and beaming in only the way that Peter could. The next, well, it was a blur now. All Ben could remember was a whirling chaotic crowd as the expo was attacked, and Peter’s scream as May lost his hand. 

It had been almost eleven years. Peter was six then, almost seven, still chubby cheeked and gap toothed with little freckles dotting his nose where those square rimmed little-kid glasses were perched. He’d have been nearly 18. Ben smiled sadly at the realisation. They missed the golden years, missed seeing Peter grow up. For all they know, he could be dead somewhere, the body of a missing kid reclaimed by the earth years before. 

“I… Just saw a kid today who reminded me of him.” It was true. The kid from the subway with the big brown eyes and curly brown hair, with the innocent face who looked like his dead brother. 

“What?” The skin around May’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the fork tightly. May had been hit worst by Peter’s disappearance. She had been devastated, missing work for the entire month and joining manhunts with Ben to help find him. May still blamed Tony Stark, even all those years later, while Ben only blamed himself. The cameras had been blown out, so there was no footage. There was no surveillance, no evidence, no contacts, and no trace of Peter. 

May stared at her husband, her muscles tense. He gave her an odd look, and she immediately smiled and straightened up. But Ben could tell something was wrong. 

“Funny you mention that.” She continued, sipping from her glass of water. “Delmar called me yesterday and mentioned that he saw a kid that looked like Peter too. Probably just a coincidence.”

Ben smiled weakly, and they continued eating in silence. May couldn’t help but look wistfully at the photo frame of her, Ben and Peter, and all the good memories that came with it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez, it is so hard not to write Peter instead of Peyta! I swear that each time I reread my chapters I find a new mistake. Well, I'm glad all of you are enjoying these chapters. To the person who has "validated me in the eyes of AO3" as Mat put it, thank you very much. You make my day with your comments and reads. As of March 10, 2020, we're almost at 500 views! Please add your kudos if you like it!

Peyta groaned as he fell back on the bed. The springs from the mattress pushed into his back and he made a face on the squeaking protest that it made. He dropped his bag on the ground, leaning into the thin comforter. 

“Peyta,” The synthetic female voice that had helped him through his life decisions since he was thirteen roused him. He had created Karine to help him on his operations when he was barely a teenager. Smiling, Peyta remembered the day she had been activated. 

It was nearly four years ago, as Peyta connected the last wire and inserted the chip with his code. Originally, she was only programmed in Russian, the fluency of his English language lost to him long ago. However, as he grew older and focused on his studies, he began to add different dialects. There was a small beep as the miniature circuit board lit up when he connected the power source, and a woman’s voice echoed into his ear in Russian. 

“Hello, Peyta.” He had smiled at the name he had chosen for himself. Even at age thirteen, Peyta had chosen a name for himself other than Noir. His handlers had given him the code name, stating that it was to make sure he lost any connection he had to his former life. 

Peyta, then Noir, had researched possible names, hidden from his instructors. Eventually, he settled on Peyta, which was similar to an English name that struck a chord in him- Peter. It held a strong meaning, Stone, and it was Russian. He used a numbering system to decipher the inner meaning of Peyta, and smiled when discovering that former Peytas’ had fought for truth, justice and stability. Peyta sighed, escaping his memories and pressing his finger to the communicator and responding. 

“Yes, Karine?” 

“A news story has just been released about Tony Stark’s subsequent poisoning. They say he is in stable condition and are reassuring the public he is on his way to recovery.”

Peyta cursed in Russian, deftly snatching the television controller with nimble fingers and turning to the local news source. The anchor pasted on a sympathetic smile, informing the people that Tony Stark was on his way to recovery. He growled, glaring at the television screen and looking at the newspapers on the hotel desk with articles written by J. Jonah Jameson. 

It was too risky to break back into the tower now. He had already attracted suspicion, and if Natalya was on his case, he had to leave New York quickly. They most likely had already figured out that Paul Stone was merely a pseudonym, and were tracking down his trail. Maybe they were looking for him in Jersey, but there was always the chance that they were just outside of the building now with SHIELD officers, just like this morning. 

Peyta grabbed his briefcase filled with his gear and donned his suit, brushing back his chestnut hair and gelling it. He then sorted through his identities in a pocket in his bag which was filled to the brim with passports and licenses, smirking when he found the correct one. Quickly picking up his suitcase and surveying his appearance in the mirror, Peyta- now Thorstein Lee- made his way out the door after cleaning the suite. 

“Might I suggest you are perhaps being paranoid?” Karine popped up in his ear. He smiled devilishly as he responded. 

“Ah, but it’s how I’ve stayed alive.” 

\----

“Tony!” Pepper cried, restraining herself from hugging her boyfriend as he coughed himself back to life- and a new lung, apparently. Steve was holding her back, but the relieved look on his face betrayed his own holding himself back too. Bruce smiled weakly, pushing his glasses up and rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. 

“W-whasgoinon,” Tony croaked, his fingers weakly picking at the ventilator mask. Bruce gently placed them down. 

“You were poisoned, Tony.”

“Poeson?” He blearily questioned and Bruce nodded before realising that Tony couldn’t see him well enough. 

“Yes.” Bruce briskly began his exam, testing the ears with an octoscope and then testing Tony’s pupils. He smiled when they reacted as they were supposed to, and turned to Pepper to give her a nod. She smiled widely, brushing her hair out of her face. 

It had been a hard twelve hours for all of them. After Happy and Steve had woken up, Bruce had put them on monitoring duty so he could research what to use to cure Tony. Pepper had been distraught, but continued work as usual, albeit a bit distracted. 

Natasha and Coulson were continuing to research the attempt and trace the assassin to his hole. They were currently investigating each hotel in the area for a Paul Stone. It was evident that it was a premeditated and carefully thought out plan. No evidence or DNA was discovered other than a barely there gas used to knockout everyone in the apartment. It was unknown on how the executioner had gotten it in there, but it was clear that he had studied the Avengers and their habits to strike at the most opportune time. 

Sam and Tony had been the only two on the floor, with Sam in his apartment across the building. Tony was in his lab with his music blasting, which would have made it hard to hear if there had been any struggle. Natasha was down a few floors doing paperwork, Steve and Bucky were in the gym as they usually were during the night time and Bruce was in the lab working on medicine that would hopefully neutralize the Hulk easier. Thor was in Asgard, dealing with his brother and family, and Clint was visiting his family, which made him the perfect person to imitate. 

Pepper cried as she hugged Tony, but Steve clenched his jaw when he realised that it wasn’t over yet. 

\---

May frowned at the manila folder on her husband’s nightstand. He had left for his shift only minutes ago, and she idly wondered if she should chase after him and give him the file. Biting her cheek, May threw the cover back with shaking fingers, grimacing before she looked. 

It was Peter’s case file, and she picked it up with trembling hands, flipping through the pieces of paper and evidence. A blood red stamp condemned the front page where an old school photo of Peter was stapled. ‘COLD CASE’, it read. She took a deep breath, looking through the testimonies of different people and suspects in the case before finding her own. 

May remembered being dragged by Ben into the cold and grey interrogation room. They had grilled her for an hour or so. She still didn’t know how long it had been. It was only a few hours after Peter had disappeared, and she screamed at the officers that she should be out there, she should be looking. But they didn’t let her go, and by the time everyone was looking, it had been made sure that it was too late. 

The corners of her mouth tipped up as she looked over at the photos decorating her walls, and her eyes filled with ashamed tears as her eyes turned to the sink. May Parker, heart thudding, opened the cabinet under the sink and lifted up the used banana peels and other compost, placing the folder in the middle of them, making sure it was covered completely. 

“Sorry, Peter.” There was nothing else she could have done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The identities Peyta have chosen, you will notice, all have similar threads. They all contain some kind of connection to "stone". Obviously, there is Paul STONE, but this one, "Thorstein" is a Scandinavian given name. The Old Norse name was Þórsteinn. It is a compound of the theonym Thor and sten "stone". Lee is an homage to Stan Lee- R.I.P -and it's my last name too. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'm working on the next one. Please comment and leave Kudos when you can!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you will probably notice, it has been two weeks since the failed assassination attempt. Peyta is still Thorstein Lee, now in Miami, Florida. I hope you all enjoy this chapter- I might be coming out with a new one soon. Please check out Mat's story: Who Let them On Twitter? Thank you for the reads and please don't forget to leave Kudos if you can!  
> Ayden

“You have a nice day, sugar!” Marion Isbell called in her thick Mississippi accent, handing off the towels to the nice younger man in t-shirt. He was handsome. Chestnut hair that was pushed out of the way of his forehead to expose sparkling carmel eyes, almost as if he was Clark Gable from the movies she used to watch. He was lightly tanned, and came to her towel stop almost everyday on his way to the pool. She idly wondered if he was married. Of course, she couldn’t care in the least. She could look at the menu, even though he was at least fifty years younger than her. 

“You too, ma’am.” Mr. Thorstein Lee was polite as well, always greeting her with a smile. He had first showed up to their Miami resort in a suit, uncomfortably stiff when he charmed her. Slowly but surely over the two weeks he had stayed with them, Mr. Lee had become gradually content. Today he was only wearing a band t-shirt and grey sweatpants, most likely hiding swimming trunks underneath. 

“Oooh!” She rolled her eyes and turned to see her younger employee, Kate, who was late for the third time this week. “Did I just miss Mr. Lee?”

It was Kate’s third summer job, and she wouldn’t hold one down for a week or two. “Yes, Kate. You did. You’re late again.”

She ignored the girl’s empty apologies and promised, stacking the towels on the side and handing them off to a family who was heading down to the resort’s private beach. 

“Is there any news on Tony Stark?” Kate wondered. Marion turned around and saw Kate looking off to the Stark manor on the coast, just a few miles down. Tony Stark had made headline news when it was discovered that he had been poisoned for an attempted attack on his life. Marion didn’t care for Tony Stark personally- too much drama and trouble around him- but her younger counterparts like Kate idolised him for his tech and high-speed lifestyle. 

“No, I don’t think so. Good riddance too.” Marion polished their stand plate, smiling contentedly at the beam it gave off from the sun. All of a sudden, screams echoed from the beach as an explosion of light, heat and sound rushed past them. 

\---

Happy rushed into Tony’s lab, where he was behind his desk, pulling up blueprints and muttering to himself as he worked out measurements and equations. Happy’s face was red, and from his panting and unbuttoned blazer, it was clear he had rushed up to the penthouse. 

“Tony…” Happy huffed, placing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Tony spun around slowly in his chair, giving his head of security a disturbed expression. He crossed his legs and put his hands together. It could have appeared intimidating, but Tony was also wearing a stained metallica t-shirt and had on sunglasses that were decorated with palm trees. 

“Yes, Happy?” Tony said. 

“Miami…” Happy tried to search for the words. “House… Bomb….” Tony jolted out of his chair, his unnecessary sunglasses becoming askew on his face. 

“They bombed my Miami house?! Who would do that!” Happy fixed his jacket, standing up again, clearly sheepish at his weakened state. 

“We don’t know yet.” He replied. “Natasha and Phil thought they had a lead on where the first assassin went, but maybe they were wrong. They’re on their way to Miami right now to work on the case.”

Tony blustered and stuttered for a good minute, his face red and his hands worrying at his hair in shock. “T-they better!” He finally said. 

\---

Natasha picked up a flaming piece of metal from the wreckage with tongs, blowing it off and examining it. It was a pair of sunglasses. Broken shadow boxes littered the ground next to scorched plants. 

“Clearly premeditated.” Phil Coulson walked up behind her, his hands shoved awkwardly into his suit pants. Natasha resisted her instincts to make sure he wasn’t a threat, shifting her position so he wasn’t facing her back. 

“I thought that would have been obvious.” She remarked dryly, placing the sunglasses in a bag and making her nimble way to the still burning wreckage, blinking the acrid smoke away from her eyes. In the middle of the former mansion was a conflagrant debris of gnarled alloy, and Phil pointed to a mess of wires on the side. 

“We believe that that was used as the-”

“Bomb. Yes. I see.” 

“Director!” A blond man in grey joggers came over. 

“Clint.” Natasha smiled, greeting him with a hug, which was gladly returned. 

“I’ve collected all security footage from nearby buildings, but there’s not much.” He confessed, handing Coulson a USB drive.   
“Useful.” Coulson examined it, then looked to Clint who was wearing the same gloves as Natasha. “Are you here to help us, Barton?”

“Fraid not, Phil.” Clint clapped his hand on Coulson’s shoulder, making the director flinch slightly. “Just came to drop this off. I’m going to get the eyewitness testimonies.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow as he ran away on the beach, running up to the resort to speak with two women in the towel kiosk. He leaned on the desk and chatted with them both before writing something down on his notepad and gave Natasha the one finger salute for still watching him. She chuckled and turned back to her work, making her way through the wreckage. When she looked back, Clint had disappeared, presumably around the corner. 

“Still better than paperwork.” Nat sighed, combing through the litter for clues on who could have done this. 

\---

He flipped Natalya off, giving a disarming smile to Marion and Kate before dashing off into the building and entering a men’s bathroom. There, he entered the one stall with a window. Pulling off his identity mask and modulator, Peyta smirked. 

“Oh Natalya… I thought you were better than that.” They hadn’t caught him yet, and he was going to make sure they were nowhere close. A little scare wouldn’t hurt. Or, at least, it wouldn’t hurt him. He dropped into the laundry cart below the window, and gave the go to Karine. 

Another explosion rocked the building, and Tony’s wreckage was aflame again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. This chapter focuses on Nat and Clint. Mostly on how the red room works and how this coming to light affects Nat. I'm planning on a little bit of that in the future because they are my BROtp. I would also like to remind all of you to wash your hands- we have a pandemic going on- and please pretend you're in a NYC subway: No touching, no talking, wash.

Natasha examined the camera footage once again, looking for any suspicious characters. The beach had been filled with families enjoying their day, and any person who could have done this was lost in the fray and hubbub that ensued after the conflagration. Clint had not returned yet, and she continued to glance idly at the door in anticipation. 

Fresh air tinged with salt rushed into the small motel room, a whisper of a breeze before a storm, and Natasha swung around to see Clint in his full faux leather Hawkeye glory, standing in the doorway with his figure silhouetted by the dark grey storm clouds. He raised his arms, opening them wide and grinned. 

“Miss me?” Natasha chuckled when he opened his arms a bit too wide and hit his hand on the door frame, hissing in pain and clutching his hand as he hopped around. 

“I just saw you earlier.” She laughed, smiling. “But, sure. Yes, I missed you.”

Clint rushed over to the computer, surveying the screens of camera footage shot from nearby resorts and restaurants. 

“How’d you get this film?” He rewinded it, watching the little figures skip backwards in fascination. Natasha blinked slightly, looking over at Clint with a bewildered expression. 

“What do you mean?” Natasha asked. 

“Without a warrant?” He continued, watching Tony’s building put itself back together. 

“Clint, you got it for us. You handed it to me earlier.” He gave her a blank look and she began to get anxious as the wind picked up outside and whistled through the thin windows, bouncing off of the low popcorn ceiling. 

“Nat.” He started slowly, standing up and placing his bow down on the squeaky bed. “I just got here in Florida a half an hour ago. Are you feeling okay?”

He jokingly placed the back of his hand on her forehead to check her temperature. She frowned and pushed it off, her eyes narrowed at the footage and her brain wandering. Her eyes widened dramatically and Natasha swore, hitting the table with a fist. 

“Woah there.” Clint took a step back. It was easier to go hands off when Nat went into her moods. She had either just realised she missed something or she was angry. Maybe both, considering the steam that seemed to be escaping her ears in an almost cartoonish fashion. She huffed, beginning to fast forward through the footage while pressing inordinately hard down on the mouse. 

She focused on a figure walking up to the wreckage, itching the back of his neck. It was almost as if he was wearing a wig. He touched his neck, and she could catch a glimpse of a shimmering on the footage. Cursing once more, she swung around in the chair and pointed to the person on the screen, placing her head in her hands with an ashamed grumble. 

“That looks like me.” Clint narrowed his eyes. He watched his imposter walk up to Nat and Phil and proceed to have a conversation before the man walked away. 

“Are there any fingerprints?”

“What?”

“On the flash drive.” Nat gave him a dry look. 

“Obviously I took fingerprints because I was suspicious of my friend who was wearing gloves at the time.” Clint rolled his eyes at her obvious sarcasm and pulled it out of the computer quickly. 

“He couldn’t have been wearing gloves the entire time, genius.” He responded with an equal amount of sarcasm. Natasha sighed dramatically and used her legs to swing the office chair around to nab the flash drive. Clint sat down on the squeaky cot to watch her work, boredly examining the room in his spare time. 

It was small, one bedroom, with a window covered by thick tan curtains bleached by the sun that was the only view of the outside. The walls were covered by patchy red paint, hints of former wallpaper showing here and there, and the ceiling was a standard hotel ceiling with a grainy texture, complete with water stains and a blinking fire alarm. The bed he was sitting on was covered in harsh and granular white sheets with a suspicious stain at the foot. The carpet was slightly moist, and the room smelled faintly of mothballs and dead animals. The rickety desk in the corner was occupied by Nat’s gear and computer. The most modern thing in the room was the old desk chair that Natasha was sitting in. 

“Got it!” She cried, using a paper swab to take a copy and inserting it into her scanning machine. A copy of the fingerprints came up onto the screen, and she put it into the program that would scan for any matches for known criminals. Ten minutes later, the computer let out a series of small beeps that indicated a negative result. Clint frowned. 

“Try the civilian and universal database. Maybe he’s not from here.” She pursed her lips before deciding and changing the settings. She turned to face Clint, and recapped what happened with Tony. 

“We believe that this is the same person. Which means that this is the second time I have encountered this assassin, and he has fooled me each time. Our intel shows that…” She hesitated, finding it hard to speak. Clint leaned forward on his knees, enraptured in the case already. 

“He has been trained by the Red Room.” Clint’s mouth dropped open slightly before he regained his composure. Remembering the lethality and ruthlessness of the red room agents gave him pause, and he shivered. 

“I thought they were neutralised years ago.” He confessed.

“Clearly we were wrong.” Natasha was stiff now, and her face had been schooled into a carefully apathetic expression that he hadn’t seen in years. This was definitely affecting her. He sighed, shaking his head and looked to the computer again, waiting for the tell-tale beep. Just a minute later, his prayers were answered, and the computer sang. 

“Peter Parker…” She said out loud, examining the file. The last photo they had of the kid made him look like a six year old. “It says that he’s been missing since the Stark Expo. Clint. That was almost 10 years ago.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I've been dead. I was killed by my writers block. Have no fear: I have not abandoned this fic. I'm glad to hear you all love it!

“I know, Nat. I can do math.” Clint grumbled, but she could tell he was disturbed. He looked at the faded photo of a grinning little boy with rosy cheeks and curly brown hair, trying to imagine him as a killer. The Red Room could do that. He remembered seeing the old photos of Nat before she was taken. They were eerily similar to Peter’s. 

The photo reminded him of his own kids, Natasha could tell. She left the computer to face the clouded window to the outside world, her mouth in a pinched and frustrated look. In that moment, Clint realised how much all of this was weighing on her. She appeared the same since they had met outwardly, albeit maybe a bit older, a little more tired. He wondered how differently he looked. 

With three kids, Clint was sure he had more grey hairs than he had started with, a few more lines from stress, and a few more lines from laughter. He no longer bothered gelling his hair to complete perfection each day, no longer spending a painstaking hour in front of the mirror, making sure that no strands were out of place. He almost chuckled at the thought. When he started with S.H.I.E.L.D, Clint was meticulous about his appearance. Eventually, he gave up when he joined the field. No use styling if you were just going to have to wash the blood and sweat out of it later. 

Natasha bit the inner part of her cheek, the screams of men, young and old, women and children running through her head. The melody of a ballet class and the sharp crack of the teacher’s ruler on her hand. The feeling of blood running down her face, and the rush the adrenaline gave her. She closed her eyes, recalling all of the things she had long since repressed- the cold approval she received from the handlers, along with the lesson that one never showed emotion. Emotion made you weak in their eyes. She shivered lightly. Nat had fought against these tendencies, the little girl that once was screaming in her brain for dominance, willing her to love, and the cold hearted killer that had existed since she was broken. 

The red room was active. But how? She had carefully chipped away at their defenses, using the methods that had been drilled into her, assassinating the group as if they were a real live person. The refugees had been administered into S.H.I.E.L.D. 's recuperation program. So what had happened with Peter Parker? Why? She glanced down at the picture again, wondering if this kid had changed as much as she had and hoped there was even the slightest chance he could be brought back into the light. 

\---  
Peyta grimaced at the bustle and hustle of downtown Miami, slipping past a group of giggling college girls and ducking into a small convenience store to change his appearance in the bathroom. He estimated that he had about an hour before a warning was released about him. 

Silently and carefully, he zipped up a black jacket, pulling on a pair of jeans and covering up the graphic t-shirt that made him look like the teenager he was. He frowned, staring into the stained and cracked mirror of the small bodega bathroom. The manic little voice whispered in his brain, bading him to take a shard and use it on himself, just to see the blood. He bit his cheek, wondering if Stark’s blood would have the metallic smell that the others did.

He returned back to the beach cautiously, if only to grab a suitcase secreted in a bed of ferns that lined the beach. How the officers had not found it in their search, he didn’t know. He didn’t particularly care enough to figure out either. A family walked past him, the children chattering about their day, the explosion and anything they could see. He gave the father a smile, as see-through as the water on the beach to him, but deeper down was murky and filled with dark intentions. 

Did he ever talk like that? Peyta pondered. If he had not lived this life, would he have lived as a normal teenager, filled with trivial thoughts, wonderings and ideas, doomed to tell everyone like those children? Would he have had a relationship with a girl, yearning for her like in those films he watched in the motel? He shook his head, walking down the sidewalk and ignoring the girls who giggled into their phones. 

He had to find some place that he could check in. They were not going to be pleased with what was his second failure in their eyes. The explosion was never met to hurt anyone. He had scoped out the mansion, keeping track of the security and cleaning personnel to strike at the most opportune time. It was a scare tactic. He knew that Tony Stark would be ushered into his safe house on Isle of Palms in South Carolina. There, he would pose as a college kid on his spring break, and sneak into Stark’s safehouse once more. 

He gave a small and devilish smirk, picturing the rewards he would receive when he completed his task. Peyta would be lauded greatly, maybe even given a command of his own. But he wouldn’t be freed. He frowned suddenly. Peyta had travelled many places for his secretive clientele and handlers, but he had never truly been able to fully appreciate and experience the places he went. 

He shook his head and focused back on his plan. The explosion would also scare S.H.I.E.L.D. This would put more pressure on Barton and Romanova to find him. One of them would get sloppy- he was sure of it. 

Peyta contemplated how he would kill Tony Stark. Although his inner animal longed for pain, he refused it. Perhaps poison was a good way to go again. Maybe something little known. Thallium was found in small traces in many home grown vegetables, and the small house near the beach had a garden in the backyard. If he injected three of the same kind of fruit, maybe that would work. He groaned to himself. Too many things could go wrong.

Finally, Peyta let the growling and bloodthirsty animal loose. He pictured the laboratory filled with ideas that could bring about world domination if it fell into the wrong hands burning, and he wondered what it would take to do that. Gasoline was plentiful inside Tony’s garage, used for his many luxury vehicles. The garage… Yes… Carbon monoxide poisoning was common in closed garages when people started their car. That could work. Completely unsatisfying, but it had the most probability of success.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Wow. I haven't updated in over 3 months. Don't worry guys, I promise that I am not abandoning this book. If you have any ideas, please feel free to share them in the comments and please leave kudos if you can!

Tony grinned to himself as he rested his feet in the white sand of the Carolina beach. Reclining his chair, the billionaire adjusted his designer sunglasses with his own tech embedded- a partnership with Ray Bans, soon to hit the market- and picked up a 750 ml bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey from the cup holder, quickly taking a drink. 

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” He called to his security detail that was standing behind them in their black suits, standing stiff among the capricious plants that decorated the dunes. They were emotionless, constantly scanning the shore like he was about to be attacked any moment.n Groaning loudly, Tony took a shot, wondering why S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t have sent their fun agents. He checked his singular phone, deciding to call Pepper, but it was quickly snatched out of his hand and confiscated by an operative. 

“Sorry, sir.” Apologised the stoic agent without a bit of emotion in his voice. “No technology that communicates with a satellite.”

“Am I grounded?” Tony griped, taking a swig from the glass bottle again and then letting out a belch. He offered the bottle to the nearest suit, who steadfastly ignored him. Rolling his eyes, Tony turned them to the surf. “It really feels like I’m grounded!”

Still, the agents ignored him. He groaned, rolling his head back to rest against the rim of the beach chair, squishing his toes around the sand. Blinking sleepily, he suddenly became aware of commotion at the house. 

“What’s going on?” Tony questioned, beginning to push himself up from the chair. The security agent pushed him back down roughly, speaking into his ear piece. The billionaire grunted at the pressure. 

“Sorry, Mr. Stark.” He briskly commented before nodding to the other two agents and running up the boardwalk, their handguns drawn, looking like strange birds in their black suits on the sand. 

Tony grumbled, wondering what was going on. Looking at the other two agents left, he determinedly pushed himself up, swaying a little, but marched forward to the wooden steps that connected the beach to his safehouse. He began climbing up, purposefully jogging up the steps as the shouts of his babysitting detail went in one ear and out the other. 

“What is going on here?” He exclaimed when he laid his eyes on the sight in his front lawn. Three goons had pinned what looked to be a skinny kid around college age wearing bermuda shorts and a tank top. 

“Geez, get off the kid.” He grunted as he pulled the head of security off of the boy. “I doubt he could fit anything in those shorts. He’s so skinny and his clothes are so form fitting I doubt that he could hide anything if he wanted to.” The kid blushed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and looking downward. Tony turned his attention to the intruder, ignoring the agent’s attempts to get his attention. 

“So, what are you doing here, kid?” 

“M-Ms. Potts hired me to cut the grass and keep the garden clean.” He offered, stuttering slightly and still not making eye contact with Tony. “My name is Dustin Miller. I go to college in Charleston but I come out here once a week to keep an eye on the plants.”

“Mr. Stark, I still have to do a background check-” The agent tried to step in, but Tony silenced him with a wave of his hand. 

“No need. I can just contact Pepper.” 

“But-” He was interrupted by Tony again. 

“Are you doubting her capabilities?” 

“N-no, sir.” Tony could be scary when he wanted to. Peyta continued to give his nervous routine, hunching his shoulders and breathing shallowly. It was working. Tony walked back into the house, waving his hand limply at Peyta, who took that as a signal to go about his business. 

\---------  
“Noire has failed for the second time.” A sponsor argued. 

“It’s part of the strategy.” The trainer bantered back. The shadowy man at the head of the long table slammed his fist down, silencing all in the conference room. 

“I have made my decision.” His raspy voice eerily echoed. “Noire has fulfilled his usefulness.”

“Sir-” The trainer tried to speak up. 

“Do not interrupt me.” The man’s quiet fury was deafening. The trainer shakily seemed to shrink in his seat. The man barked instructions in Russian, and three different people stood up when he called their name. 

“Your task is to eliminate Noire.” The trio smirked at one another. “If you fail, you will be the one disposed of.” 

The assassins knew that if they completed this, they would be lauded by the trainers. They would have gotten rid of their biggest competitions, for Noire- whose true identity was unknown- was the greatest assassin to have graduated from the Red Room since Black Widow.


	10. Chapter 10

Peyta stared wide-eyed into Tony Stark’s garage. It was larger than anticipated with large fenced walls- clearly for flooding- that were in the eyeline of different agents. Only three designer cars were stored in the garage. The rest were evidently back at different residences. He frowned. This wouldn’t do at all. 

Perhaps poison would be a better option. Thallium was too risky, but slipping it into his food had been a good idea. Only the deadliest venom would do, and he knew just how to do it. Adult intestinal toxemia- also known as adult intestinal colonization- botulism is a very rare kind of botulism that can happen if the spores of the bacteria get into an adult’s intestines, grow, and produce the toxin. Somehow, the source of this was still untraced and unfound. Perhaps that could be a good cover. After all, cyanide was easy to trace and detect, in his experience anway. 

Away from his state-of-the-art lab with all the medical and mechanical wonders of the world available, Tony Stark was nearly a sitting duck. After being dosed, he would die within 36 hours without anti-toxin to relieve him. Botulism is a toxin that attacks the nerves, usually starting with weakness of the muscles that control the eyes, face, mouth, and throat. This weakness may spread to the neck, arms, torso, and legs. Botulism also can weaken the muscles involved in breathing, which can lead to difficulty breathing and even death in extreme cases. 

In any rate, this would leave Tony weak enough for Peyta to strike if need be. By the time he was given a brain scan or his spinal fluid was examined, it would be too late. Peyta would make sure of it. 

The next night, as he stayed in the garden pruning the roses, Peyta idly wondered if he was doing the right thing. What a strange thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a conscience, if that was what they were called. Standing up, he smiled to the agent guarding him with wide eyes. 

“Hey, man,” Peyta said. “Listen, I’m just gonna drop the tools off in the garage. Do you mind if I use the bathroom? I have an hour drive and I really don’t want to stop.”

Disarmed, the agent nodded dumbly. Peyta gave an easy grin, his muscles tense. He was carrying the liquid in his pockets, which he would put into the mouthwash of the only bathroom in the place. The agent followed him in.

“I can do this part by myself. Don’t worry about me.” He casually joked, closing the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, he used the toilet, then leaving the water running to disguise the noise. Using the hand towel, he opened the cap to the mouthwash. Strangely, his hands were shaking.  
Peyta stared at his betrayers, those trembling cowards that would not turn. His mind urged him to upturn the bottle into the purple minty liquid, but his body would not allow it. With a grunt, he poured the poison into the mouthwash and capped it once more. A knock sounded at the door. 

“Almost done!” He hurriedly said, shutting off the water after running his hands through it. Strengthening his resolve, Peyta opened the door. 

“Thanks, man.” He clapped the stiff agent on the shoulder. Jogging away, he entered his white rental SUV, driving away and taking shaky breaths. What was wrong with him? He had never been so hesitant before. 

Peyta knew that the best assassins stayed distant emotionally. That was how he’d succeeded throughout his short career. Something was different about Tony Stark. Was this man going to ruin this for him? No. Peyta wouldn’t let him. He would make sure of it. 

A tingle ran up his spine, feeling almost like a spider’s different legs. Pursing his lips, he turned on his blinker and pulled to the side of the road. Something was wrong. He wasn’t sure what. Cursing wildly, he realised that he had forgot to canvass the car like he usually did. Peyta felt the heat turn up on his seat with no hand controlling it. Opening his door, he jumped the second before the car exploded. 

Peyta heard a loud smack as he landed on the group haphazardly. A wave of heat and sound rushed over him, so he closed his eyes and curled up out of reflex. Shards of glass pierced his skin, but he resisted the primal urge to scream. Looking back, he saw that his rental car was aflame, the roof and glass completely blown out. 

Staying low, Peyta began to army crawl to the nearby trees on the side of the hallway, praying quietly in Russian that no blood would be spilled that could identify him. He could come back later to clean it up if necessary. He leaned back against a pine, feeling the sharp bark against his fresh wounds. Peyta let out a hiss, grabbing his shoulder and rolling it back. 

“Привет, предатель.” A sinister voice greeted him as they dropped from the tree.


	11. Chapter 11

“The guy who was in the car? He must have dragged himself into the woods.” A shrug. “I’ll get some of my officers to search the forest, but I’m telling you, lady, with the amount of blood that’s here, he’s probably dead already.”

Natasha scowled as she surveyed the scene. She tuned out of the deputy’s explanation, cursing about incompetent police. They were about 40 or so minutes away from Tony’s safe house in Isle of Palms, on route 41. This was definitely not a coincidence. Peter had been here. 

“Nat!” Clint called from behind a pine tree. She jogged over, her eyes widening as she took in the bloodied ground and burnt seal in the tree. It was only about the size of her palm, but she recognized it and the tool used to make it. Running her fingers over the smooth and blackened wood, she pursed her lips and turned into Clint. 

“The wood burning pen.” Clint’s eyes locked with hers as he seemed to realise in real time whose signature this was. 

“She’s come out of retirement?” He hissed. Nat nodded silently. 

“Pardon me, ma’am, but who are y’all talking about?” The flummoxed Officer Davis cut in. Nat turned to him. 

“S.H.I.E.L.D will be taking this over. We will contact the local services when we need your help.”

“Ma’am!” He protested, but Natasha would hear none of it. 

“This isn’t a joke, sir.” She said as she ushered the bemused policeman to his car. 

“What are all y’all talking about!?” He was shoved into his painted honda. Irritated now, Natasha grabbed her collar and pulled it down to expose the high part of her left collar bone. The otherwise clear skin was marred with a scar- the same brand as the tree. It was a faded pink that looked like she had bubblegum stuck to her shoulder. It was raised and ridged, a blemish, but a testament to what she had gone through. 

“This is what we’re up against.” She didn’t dare raise her voice louder than a furious whisper to the horrified officer. “I received this brand as a reminder that I could never leave. I got it because I dared to show emotion; because I was brave enough to plan my escape.”

A beat. “Go.” With a frightened nod, the deputy slammed the door to his cruiser closed and started the engine. Nat was distracted for just a moment, running her fingers over the scar that had been burnt into her skin, and looked to the tree. That would be a fatal mistake. 

Perhaps, if she had been paying attention to her surroundings, she would have noticed the sniper in the tree, adjusting their scope to hit the temple of the officer’s head. Perhaps, if she had just looked up and drawn her gun, the deputy would have lived. 

A sudden shot rang out as the glass window of the car shattered. Without a flinch or even a blink, Natasha and Clint immediately crouched down in a ready squat and drew their guns. Another gunshot; an officer taking crime scene photos dropped, his camera smashed. One more, and the final officer that the Charleston police had sent was on the side of the roadway. 

It was a massacre, but Natasha somehow didn’t lose her composure. Clint steeled his nerves, looking away from Officer Davis’s body in the car. He reminded himself that this wasn’t the first body that he had seen. He had just met the man barely 10 minutes before, and now Davis was dead. He wondered if the man had a family, and who would tell them. 

“Clint.” Natasha brought him back to reality as more gunshots shattered the windshield of the police car, mutilating Davis’s face beyond recognition. Clint flinched then. A shard of glass embedded itself in his thigh, and he pulled it out with a grimace and a squelch, wrapping a kerchief around the wound. 

“They’re shooting from an upwards angle. They look to be covered in one of the trees on the other side of the highway. Do you have your bow?” Clint nodded silently, his eyes trained on the trees on the other side. Could he make it? He’d made farther distances before. With a dry swallow, he pulled out his bow, crouching behind the destroyed vehicle and aiming for the area that Nat directed. It was not the time to be unsure. It was time to act before it was their spinal fluid on the concrete. 

With a quick exhale, the arrow left his bow and created a sonic boom as it exploded on the other side of the highway, knocking most of the leaves off the trees and leaving the sniper vulnerable. He notched a second arrow, aiming it to the dark shape that continued to shoot. Debris from the bullets flew up at his face as he struggled to aim. 

“Shoot now!” Natasha called, so he pulled his hand off the bow. The arrow flew out again, and they watched with bated breath. The tree exploded in a stinging blast, and the heat flew over them. Natasha remembered the burst of light and pain from Miami and curled in tighter to herself. Clint shut his eyes, shielding his face with his hand as he shied away.

All was silent. It seemed strange. The highway had been blocked off before, so they weren’t interrupted. No cards drove by; the birds were silent. Clint counted to ten before turning cautiously toward the target. The tree was aflame, the bare branches clear. He didn’t dare sigh yet, instead silently turning to Natasha. 

She was still curved into the fetal position at the bumper of the car. Her breathing was fast and dry sobs wracked her body. He reached out with a single, shaking, gloved hand. 

“Nat?” Clint whispered gently, reminded of his kids after they had a nightmare. Natasha cried out, covering her ears with her hands. She was trembling, sweaty and unable to sit up. Clint had seen this many times- experienced it too. 

“Make them stop.” She said in a quivering voice, her eyes wide and haunted. “Make the voices stop.”

“Nat, listen to me. You have to breathe.” Clint was at a loss, afraid to touch her if it would set off a larger attack. They needed to move before they became more vulnerable targets, but there was nowhere to go. Natasha nodded quickly and tried to push herself up from the asphalt littered with bullets and carcasses. 

She flinched as soon as her hands left her ears, though. Clint grimaced, canvassing the space around them. They were clear for now. He scooped Natasha up and ran into cover into the woods where he could radio the damage in. The trees loomed around them as he began to become woozy from blood loss. 

He stumbled on a tree root, looking around and finally placed Natasha in the embrace of the large evergreen. The gnarled roots were a testament to how much it had seen, and the circumference of the trunk was larger than Clint could measure with his arms. It was a good shelter, at least for the time being. 

Crouching down, Clint tried to remember the training that S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him about P.T.S.D. “Nat, listen to me. It’s not real. That was years ago.” 

He tried to ground her, remind her that whatever she was reliving happened so long ago. Natasha was vulnerable right now- mentally and physically. Clint was bleeding out from a large gash in his leg from the glass exploding. Was this how they would die? He refused. They had survived far worse. Blood loss meant cookies. 

Clint couldn’t have said for sure what mission or battle she was reliving until she started mumbling apologies in her native language- Russian. Guilt. It wasn’t her fault. She would never absolve that to herself. She would always blame herself; she could have stopped them. Only she controlled her actions. Clint didn’t believe that. 

“C’mon, Nat. I believe in you. You’re not a killer. We can save him. We can save Peter, just like how I saved you. We’re outside in South Carolina. We’re not in… there anymore.” Her breathing began to slow down, and the glaze on her eyes disappeared as a tear finally escaped. The blood that was slowly dripping down her forehead reached her eyebrow and she shakily brushed it away. Clint smiled, though his eyes were worried. 

“How ya doing?” He said. Natasha nodded curtly, pursing her lips, ignoring the drumbeat of her head. She pushed herself up, leaning against the tree. She was wobbly, though she refused to be perceived as so. 

Nat needed to be strong. She thought she didn't need help; she declared that she didn’t need people to obsess over her injuries. She had been taking care of herself for years. Any show of dependency in her eyes would show her weakness, and that was when her enemies would strike. 

She looked around the woods. They looked mundane, the only movement was the green leaves of spring waving in the wind. Were they saying goodbye? Natasha wasn’t going to let them. She drew out her gun shakily, crouching and analysing their surroundings. A few hundred feet away, against a tree, there was someone. 

“Clint.” She whispered, gesturing at him to look away from his device that he was using to contact help. Natasha flicked her head and gun in the direction of the person on the tree. They were standing up, unmoving. Was that Peter?

The two agents ran behind one tree, closer than the evergreen, each looking out one side of the trunk with their weapons at the ready. They continued this trend until they reached the line of trees closest to the person. 

With a simple nod, Clint peered out from the side of the tree. There was the bloody boy, probably around 16 to 18, if Natasha had to guess. He had shaggy brown hair, pale skin, and wide brown eyes that were filled with fear. His throat was cut from ear to ear, almost like he was wearing a grotesque smile, and the blood dripped down slowly like syrup. The boy was held up with the rope that was tying his hands together around the tree; his shoulders were dislocated, but he continued to fight against his bonds, muffled screaming coming from his mouth, which was sewn shut with thread. He was covered with burn marks, bloody lacerations and wounds. This was a clear mark of torture, and Natasha could only think of one thing as he continued to scream, his voice near silenced, just like hers was. But he was fighting; perhaps they could save him. 

“Peter?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this took a while.... Hope you like it. I plan to update very soon. Is the tortured boy Peyta? Who is he? We'll find out soon! Sorry that it took so long!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a month, and now it's spooky season!! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I'm working on a new one right now. I love seeing your theories in the comments, so please, keep them coming!!  
> Ayden

Lieutenant Benjamin Parker of the NYPD never thought that his moment would ever come. However, as he and his wife were waiting outside of the hospital room that smelled like ammonia, he wondered how different this boy would be. Would he still talk Ben’s ear off like he used to or would he want time alone? Had he been alone? Would he look like Richard or like Mary? Perhaps a perfect blend of both, like was when he was younger. 

“How are we going to pay the hospital bills if it’s Peter?” May whispered frantically. Her fingers worried on the rosary clutched in her hands that she had been praying with for the past two hours. She was shaking and her knuckles were white. 

“We’ll use the inheritance you got from your uncle.” Ben assuaged her doubts. May didn’t calm down, merely giving him a placating smile and continuing to let her fingers worry the varnish on the rosary beads. If this boy was really Peter, she was ruined. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Parker?” There was a man in a clean and crisp suit with a voice as staccato as the beeps from the microwave. He had a job and he clearly did it well. Ben extended his hand. The agent took it, never breaking eye contact, as if they were making a covenant. 

“Please,” The police officer said. “Call me Ben, Agent….?”

“Coulson. Phil Coulson. I’m with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, but we call ourselves S.H.I.E.L.D.” He straightened his suit jacket, and hesitated, unsure of how to tell them. 

“This boy…” A pause. Silence in the empty hallway. “May or may not be Peter. They burned off his fingerprints, and then removed his teeth and his tongue. If you’d consent, we can do a DNA test.”

Ben’s hand was covering his mouth, and May leaned on him in shock. Agent Coulson nodded, a sympathetic smile on his face. “I’ll let you decide.”

They collapsed then, Ben shaking into May’s shoulder as she stared out into the hallway in shock. Could it really be him? After all these years? Their Peter, with his curly brown hair that was always a rats nest whenever he woke them up early in the morning? Their little boy with the inquisitive brown eyes that idolized Tony Stark? Ben and May had seen themselves wanting to be parents. They wanted to adopt- maybe in their thirties.

Then Richard and Mary passed away, and Peter was only a baby. They didn’t know what to do. It was actually Ben who had convinced May- “It’s my nephew!”- but May had seemed to adapt quite quickly. It had been eleven years though. They were older now, in their forties, and it seemed like the window had passed to have any other children. The potential of adopting had always seemed like too much of a hassle, and it felt like they were trying to replace Peter. 

“C-can we see him?” May asked. Agent Coulson nodded stiffly, and May took a shaky breath as she saw her hand reaching out to the garbage can to throw away the file. Peter’s screams echoed in her ear again as she saw his little hand reaching out for her. She stood tall when the door opened, but collapsed against Ben in shock when she saw the pale figure on the bed. 

He looked so young, and outwardly, he bore no striking resemblance to the Peter that only played in digital memories and their heads. The boy in the hospital cot had the same brown hair that Mary had been known for, tangled and gnarled on her worst days. His face looked nothing like either of his parents, but if Ben squinted, the nose was Richard’s and the chin was just like that of Peter’s grandfather, John. It was all just wishful thinking, sure, but it was heartwarming to see Ben’s hope return as he forgot the face of the boy he had bumped into at the train system. 

“It’s him. Ben, I know it’s him.” May whispered, sure that it was not Peter. If she could convince him that a test was unnecessary. Grotesque scars marked the stranger’s cheeks, highlighting the hollowness of the skin that seemed that it had been tanned, but hadn’t seen sun for some time. Ben smiled, grasping May’s hands in his own as her anxieties and secrets were occulted once more behind a thin veneer of relief. 

“You must be the Parkers.” A doctor in a white lab coat stepped in, extending his hand with an ingratiating smile. May shakily returned the gesture. If they did the DNA test, Peter was still in the air. The boy would bring light to the case, exposing the suspects to more questioning. Her to more questioning. Why had she done that? She’d been desperate, and that would be her fatal flaw. 

“Are you Peter’s doctor?” She asked. “I’m a nurse myself.”

They conversed, Ben asking questions about the scars and the trauma that ‘Peter’ had received, asking if they knew anything. May resisted the urge to scoff at the idea that the medical staff would have any idea of the investigation, instead turning pleading eyes to the doctor, who began assuring them that it seemed like he had been well taken care of. There were no outward signs of long term malnutrition. In fact, Peter was tall for his age at just about 1.91 meters. No, the doctors didn’t know when he would wake up, or even if he would. May tampered down her relief, instead nodding sorrowfully. The universe had allowed her mercy for now, but karma is a cruel mistress; For forgiveness is not a cowardice, and one must live with their mistakes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies! Few things to clarify: When I use the name 'Noir', I am referring to Peyta, as that is his name in the Red Room. Éclater does mean Flash, yes, it's French, just like Noir. Flash is a pawn, which is why I have only used it when referring to him. I really did work on Flash's characterization. He comes off as the kind of person who believes that he is owed the world, but does nothing to achieve it, so he takes it out on people who achieve the things he wants. It did hurt describing Peyta's wounds. It was fun, though, finding different words and trying to make my sentences sing. I hope you love this chapter as much as I do!  
> Ayden

“Have you come to kill me then?” The prisoner- a mere boy- asked, with the bravado that men four times his elder lacked. He shivered at the strange cool wind that swept through the small musty room. A pungent smell reached his nose, the lurid scent of blood, urine, pus and excrement. The door slammed shut behind the man as he examined the tortured body. The boy was a canvas of different scars- some red and inflamed, others bloody, and hundreds from years past. It looked like they had harvested one of his kidneys- maybe a liver; after all, if he wasn’t useful for his intended purpose, he could be made useful somewhere else. The boy’s mutation would have him regenerate one soon. 

It was such a shame that Noir would have to be wiped, especially considered the work that they had put into him. He was sold for a high price by the woman who had been meant to keep him safe. All the better for them. Éclater- the flare, a flash really- was another brainwashed assassin that believed that it could become the new pet. It had flipped through Noir’s file before coming in, recalling that they had injected the boy with a mutated version of the serum used on Natalya Romanova. Noir- it- was supposed to be the better spy. They had controlled it with the same tricks as the White Wolf, deciding that if Noir proved itself, it could become the next Winter Soldier. 

“I think that you should be pampered first. Hm? Do you not agree?” Éclater sneered, drawing out some grotesque looking tweezers and looking forward to releasing its anger on the creature that it perceived to be unworthy of the honours that had been bestowed on it. It was jealous, truly, in only ways that bloodthirsty, ambitious and Machiavellian beasts could be. It blamed Noir for taking away things that could have been Éclater’s- the serum and the mission. It thought that it could have killed Tony Stark, and had dreamed of being lauded by the handlers. 

Peyta screamed as the other boy pulled on his fingernails, slowly ripping them out of their homes as blood streamed down his fingers. The toenails came next, Peyta trying to maintain his dignity as he resisted the reflex of kicking and tears came to his eyes for the first time in years.

“Did you know that she gave you up?” Éclater said coldly. It wanted Noir to be broken. The Flare left behind only destruction, and it wanted to make sure that Noir could never supplant it. 

“What?” Peyta croaked. 

“Your aunt. She sold you to the handlers. You were so useless that even they did not want you. You are even more useless now, and you have disappointed the handlers.” 

“And what of you?” Peyta shot back after a moment, spitting blood onto the crusted floor. Éclater gave a laugh that was more akin to a cackle. He was about the same age as Peyta, with tanned skin and the same locked brown eyes. He covered up his scars with barbs and tried to drag those higher than him down with cutting words and insults. But it was clear that Flash had not anticipated that. 

“N-never you mind that.” It stuttered in the face of Peyta’s glare. Truly, it had never considered a life outside of the imagined glory of HYDRA. Would someone be looking for Flash? Was someone looking for Peyta? Did anyone care about the kids who were gone in a second, never to be seen the way they were again?

“You are a failure.” Éclater said, taking a knife and savagely slicing a line diagonally down Peyta’s face. He cut and he cut, but Peyta refused to break. Beauty meant nothing to him, though it did help him occasionally. However, Peyta was just seventeen, and though the scarce baby fat had melted off his cheeks, he had not yet become a man. Perhaps he would never get to see his face grow to resemble something normal. Vanity is a black hole and so is a mirror, so Peyta had been made to never see himself for longer than five minutes. Flash had never been that fortunate in ways of modesty. It had been drawn to the reflective surfaces of puddles and glass from the moment it had arrived at the training center. 

“Less so than you.” Peyta shot back, his face forming into a tired grin that stretched the grotesque and syrupy lacerations on his face. Éclater snarled, raising the knife up, ready to strike, looking like Cain with Abel at his mercy. Its hand was taut around the handle of the blade, its armed tense and prepared to puncture and his teeth bared. It looked almost like an animal. Peyta took a deep breath in, staring Flash in the face and daring the assassin to do it. 

The moment was shattered as the door banged open and Flash was picked off with an arrow. Peyta’s breath was still being held, his heart in his throat and his head leaning back in the chair. He had faced death a million times, but he had never been that helpless before. 

“Hey, kid!” A voice called out to him, and he flinched at the hand that began to undo his bindings. He couldn’t make out a face- his eyesight was blurry, a ringing sound in his ear. His breathing became slower as white spots started drifting across his sight and a faceless man grabbed him. 

“No!” Peyta realised himself, jerking as he tried to get away. They were trying to kill him. The monsters haunted his psyche, whispering traitorous thoughts. He trusted no one. That is what he had learned. But what if they were wrong? 

“Kid!” The man shouted, holding him tighter. A breath of fresh air hit Peyta’s face, acting like a stinging slap against the cuts. He took a deep breath, ceasing his fight. 

“Nat!” His presumed savior called out. After all, the man had killed Éclater. Peyta stiffened slightly. Could the faceless man be referring to Natalya Romaonva? Was this Clint Barton, who Peyta had impersonated before? His thoughts went wild, deeming him too insignificant for the avengers to come after him. A voice above him cursed in Russian. He could no longer see with the blood crowding his eyes.   
“Здравствуйте?” Peyta calls out, cursing inwardly at how weak his voice sounds. A sound that reminds him of the rush of water fills his ears, but before he succumbs to the darkness, he hears the sound of gunfire, screams and explosions. A statement is whispered into his ear. 

“Don’t worry, kiddo. You’re safe now with us. We’re the Avengers.” He relaxes and gives into the dark, trusting in those words.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is a month late! I'll try and update when I can. If I don't update before Christmas- a very happy holidays to everyone reading this, regardless of dates. Please comment and leave kudos if possible- I love to see the theories and reactions!  
> Ayden

Natasha kept an eye on the boy in the bed. Was this Peter? She had Clint bring up her files for when she first was recruited into the agency, as well as the transcripts from her therapy sessions. This boy had probably been abused and shaped into their idea of a perfect warrior. He looked so innocent, lying there, but Natasha knew this boy had probably killed. The boy- that’s all he ever was in her mind. He didn’t remember being called Peter, only the name that his handlers had assigned to him to dehumanise him. Something about it wasn’t sitting right with her.

A groan echoed through the room as the boy shifted in bed, his eyes squeezed tightly. Natasha jumped out of shock, her hand instinctively reaching toward her pistol on her hip. He was still asleep, but shivers rocked his body like they had for the past few weeks. It had been nearly a month since he was found, half dead and tortured, and they didn’t know if he would ever wake up. 

“Any changes?” A voice came from the door. Natasha shook her head. It was May Parker, the boy’s- Peter- aunt. She came every day, weary from her long shifts as a nurse at the hospital. Her husband visited unfrequently, often sitting catonic beside the boy and seemingly searching for any familiar part of him that he might recognise. May was different. She would whisper to Peter, caressing his hands tightly, tears in her eyes.   
Natasha had watched her, the longing in one woman’s eyes hidden behind a stone facade and the other exposing her deepest secrets. There was something off about her. Natasha wrote it off as paranoia of a new person. Something just wasn’t sitting right to the former spy, 

“What was he like?” Natasha asked, images and old memories flitting through her mind from her childhood. She had only allowed herself to dream of a reunion with her family a few times, knowing that sorrow would only bring down her defenses. Peter was one of the lucky ones. He was still young, and though he would have scars and trauma for the rest of his life, the boy had the option to sweep this under a rug and try to live a normal life. 

“Peter?” May confirmed quietly. Natasha nodded, her eyes trained on the sleeping boy in the bed, who would wake up with his family waiting for him. May smiled sadly. 

“He was a sweet kid.” She said. “Worshipped Tony Stark.” A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Why had Ben encouraged that? Natasha had other thoughts. Would he still look at the man he had been forced to assassinate and see a hero?

Nat never wanted children. Not really. Growing up in the Red Room had done too much to her, and it seemed cruel to consider ever bringing a child into a world where such a horrible life like she had could be even a possibility for any daughter she might someday bear. Nat grew up in the middle of it, but she knew even then that a child should never have to live that sort of waking nightmare. So she had made the decision early on to never have children. Not as long as the world was still so full of evils as the ones she had known her whole life. Years later, the choice would be taken from her in a ceremony that was marked by the ending of an existing life and any possible life that she might have brought about. Had Peter gone through that yet?

There were times when she felt the earth was narrowing around her. They were odd moments and almost impossible to really describe. How do you put into words the way that everything compacts into one thing – a firefighter, an assistant, an explosive, a computer – and the way that anything else just stops existing for however many heartbeats it takes for the brain to really comprehend what it sees? How can you explain to someone the way that the universe can somehow stretch out for impossibly long intervals of time that pass by in the matter of seconds? It seemed like too long, but it was barely an eighth of a minute. 

Nat had been brushing off Peter’s possible- definite- trauma because he was young. He was not a child anymore. He hadn’t been one for a while. The trained assassin was nearly an adult, unprepared for the world he was now expected to face. It had taken Nat years to understand social cues. Would Peter pick them up quicker? She had ignored her worries because she knew how The Room treated their prized pets. Peter looked well-fed, cared for in a sense.  
Would he quip back in snarky teenage fashion, or would the life be beaten out of him to the point he would be afraid to look them in the eyes? There was something wrong with May’s behavior. Ben had explained that she was just in such shock. Natasha couldn’t put her finger on it. The spy had been trained since the tender age of 4 to detect things like lies. It was easy. Normal people- civilians and workers- had tells. Only psychopaths and the specially trained could hide them. 

“Are you doing okay?” Nat asked, observing May’s sunken eyes and tired shoulders. She was only a bit older than Natasha herself, but stress had aged her beyond her years. She was still beautiful, nevertheless, and carried an air of careful confidence that Natasha wished she could emit. 

May smiled again, the corners of her eyes crinkling as a tear escaped. Her fingers rubbed against the back of Peter’s limp and pale hand. She nodded, looking at the boy in the bed. The worry in her eyes was evident, but the hope that Natasha saw overrode it. 

“Yeah..” May croaked. “For the first time in a while, I think I am.”

The two women remained there for a minute, each carrying their own secrets. The moment was shattered with the harsh sound of Natasha’s work phone. Frowning, Natasha gave an apologetic look to May. The doors swung shut behind her as she made her way out into the hallway, tangling her fingers in the wig she wore to visit the hospital. 

“Clint- Clint!” She tried to keep her voice down, attempting to make sense of the ramblings her partner was spewing from her device. “What do you mean they found another Peter?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oop, this is a few months late. Sorry! Hope you like it! I finally finished another book, so hopefully I'll have more time to finish this one. Please leave comments and kudos if you are able to- I love them!

The boy took a shuddering breath in the bed. He had heard the man who had saved him- Clint Barton; threat level: 9- talking over his head with a woman who had a slight accent that was recognizable as that of a native Russian speaker, though it seemed carefully practiced out. Clearly, she was comfortable enough with this man to let a small bit of herself out to him, so Peyta came to the conclusion that she must be the Black Widow. 

“They won’t let us do DNA testing, and without their permission, we can’t test either one of them!” Barton vented. 

“Clint-”

“Their kid has been gone for nearly ten years, and they don’t care to check! They’re so desperate that it could be Peter that they don’t think it’s necessary.”

Peyta tensed on the bed. The name was the anglicized version of his self-given one, and it sent a pang through his heart. He couldn’t remember before, but he knew that there was a before. Flash had given him more information about his past than he had ever known. Who was this Peter? Why were they looking for him?

When he was younger, they had been given a test to sneak into the Headquarters of the Red Room and retrieve information. Of course, it later turned out that the specific handler who wanted the files was a mole, and was quickly disposed of. Peyta had nicked the file with his asset number in it, hopeful to find anything on him. It was blank about his background, only listing his scores and skills. 

“You’re awake.” Romanova said. Peyta reminded himself to speak with a Russian accent and play dumb. They couldn’t know that he was the assassin after Tony Stark- he’d given up on that mission anyway, what with being captured and unsure whether his last poison worked. He had more important things to concern himself with anyway. 

His fingers twitched slightly as they longed to reach for a weapon that did not exist. Dissociating, the spy tried not to go back to the place as his ears rang with the shots of his past and the screams of battle. The feeling of blood splattered on his face as his breathing began to pick up. He tried to calm down, focusing on the calm eggshell colour that adorned the walls of the hospital room. War was no place for a child. It was no place for a coward either, so he steeled his nerves and opened his eyes to see the woman he had been compared to his entire childhood. 

“Hello.” He spoke, making sure to inject a slight accent into his words and letting his voice seem higher than it actually was as he shifted to English. The man, Clint Barton, stepped over to the other side of the bed, and Peyta canvassed the room with his eyes, noticing the handcuffs on his wrists that chained him to the metal bars on the hospital bed and the shut door. 

“Hey,” Clint said with a warm grin. Peyta didn’t deserve that smile, and he knew it. The traitorous voices of greed, pride and wrath whispered about his failure in his head. 

“What’s your name?” Clint asked. Peyta remained quiet for a moment, choosing to stare at them in disbelief. His mind was working a mile a minute. Did he reveal the name he had given himself? It was similar to the boy they were talking about before.   
“They called me Noir.” 

“Noor?” Clint butched the pronunciation. Natasha startled. She recognised the name- not from her own time, of course, but from the files that she had discovered during the dump. Goodness, he must have been only a kid when SHIELD fell and she thought that she had destroyed it. But the Red Room was only one head, and it seemed like 2 more had grown in its place. 

“Why were you being tortured?” She wasn’t in the mood to wait until he was ready for questioning. The boy looked her in the eye in a spectacular show of courage (or stupidity, as she would later say), but Natasha felt like he was x-raying her. 

“They talked about you.”

“Why were you in that room?” She pressed, leaning on the metal bed guards. The boy leaned back into the bed, wincing at his sore abdomen. He’d healed miraculously quick, but after being malnourished for several weeks, it was slower than he was used to. 

“I failed.” His voice was quiet, and it reminded Natasha of her own. Clint gave her a look. She knew that he saw her in this boy, the one who they had rescued from the Red Room. “They don’t tolerate failures well.”

“What did you do?” Clint asked, his voice soft with a foreboding edge. Had Noir failed in training or something else?

Peyta took a deep breath, his hands shaking slightly, just as they did when he set up his kills. What was wrong with him? He was supposed to be strong- it was what they had trained him to be. He had worked hard. He had worked to survive, to live. He had killed, and he had enjoyed it. Was he really just what they had moulded him? Was there a possibility of something more?

Just then, a harsh ringing cut through his sensitive ears, and Peyta flinched. Natasha sighed, clicking the button and exchanged a few short words with someone on the other end. She brightened slightly, something only someone who had been trained to notice these things could sense. 

“Clint, that was May.” May… Why did that name sound familiar? “The boy woke up. I’ll debrief Tony.” 

It was unspoken, but Peyta quickly realised that this other boy was the one they thought was Peter. The one they thought was after Tony Stark. He swallowed as they made their way to the door. 

“We’ll be back. There’s a guard here, so no funny business, okay?” Peyta nodded, slightly kowtowed at the amount of respect and responsibility that Barton seemed to give him. 

“Natalia.” He spoke before he could hesitate, before he could regret anything. The Black Widow froze. His handcuffs here already off his wrists, and Peyta tested his feet on the ground before walking over to the window quietly. Her back was still to him, and he scoffed internally. Such trust she had in a boy she didn’t know. The window opened with a slight squeak. 

“Check Stark’s mouthwash in South Carolina.” He jumped out, intent on making a new life for himself.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd update in one day! Setting it all up. You guys know who Arthur is, right?

“Hey, Peter!” Ned called out from the hallway. The taller boy smiled and waved, wishing he was able to respond. His friend practically ran, pressing a box of legos in his hands. 

“Dude! It’s the death star! You’re coming over to build it, right?” Peter nodded, sloppily adding a few words in sign. It had been a few months since he had woken up in the hospital bed with burning scars, nightmares and no memories. The lady at the side of the bed had tearfully introduced herself as his aunt, and told him that his name was Peter. They didn’t tell him much after that, only his age and the fact that he had been missing since he was younger. 

Ned chatted throughout the day, speaking of his theories about Queen’s own superhero-vigilante, Spider-man, who had appeared only a few weeks after Peter was discharged. 

“I’m telling you, man, The Bugle is way too harsh on him. He’s so cool!” Ned said as Peter struggled to complete the sit up, his scars folding in on themselves on his abdomen. 

“How do you think he got his powers? Let me tell you what I think… You weren’t there, but eighth grade, we went to Oscorp, and they had these massive radioactive spiders!” 

Peter tuned his friend out, grateful that he found someone that could fill the silence. He wondered what it was like before, where he was. His aunt and uncle had asked him not to mention being kidnapped to his friends- not like he could tell them anyway. 

“You good, loser?” A deadpan voice spoke out behind them, and Peter jumped, unsure of why exactly he was so skittish about being surprised. Noticing that it was just Michelle and her workout partner, Arthur, he smiled and nodded. 

Arthur was a quiet kid who had transferred from a different school the same year that Peter joined Midtown. He wasn’t exactly short for a guy, only 172 centimeters, but he was smaller than most of the boys in their grade, which frequently made him the target of bullies who found it easy to pick on someone who wouldn’t speak up- just like Peter. 

Rumours abounded that he was a Russian spy, that he was younger than most of the grade and had actually skipped a few years of school, that he had killed a man and was now in witness protection. Barring whether or not these rumours held any splinter of truth in them, he had quickly been adopted by Ned, who had just made friends with Peter, but mostly kept to himself, preferring to sit with Michelle instead. 

Arthur seemed to have something different about him. He was a borderline genius, fluent in several languages- he refused to tell them how many. His answers were strange, almost as if he was just pretending to be human, though he was skilled at it. He was almost unnaturally fit, though he explained it away by claiming that he and his father would rock climb together. The strangest thing was that only Ned, Michelle and Peter seemed to notice just how odd Arthur was. Sure, everyone knew he was weird, but they didn’t seem too concerned about it. 

Arthur always wore baggy clothes, giving him the appearance of wanting to be slovenly, but they were always crisp and clean. Always long sleeves and pants, no matter the temperature outside. He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin, tensing at any slight noise and keeping his hand in his pockets, one of which had a hole in it that Ned swore he once saw a gun in. He was perpetually slouched, but always seemed at the ready, giving the impression of someone who wanted to give the air of nonchalance but wasn’t too secure with his surroundings. 

“What class do you have next?” Ned asked Arthur, who looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if he was trying to remember. Like he’d ever need to; Ned had tested it, and he had a basically perfect memory. 

“Science.” His voice was soft, with a strange accent that they hadn’t been able to place. The boy’s brown eyes widened, and he seemed to straighten up, growing a few inches as he looked toward the windows. 

“Get down!” He yelled, and the entire class hit the hard gym floor as a semi-truck trailer flew through the large, barred windows of the gymnasium. Peter could hear Arthur breathing quietly, and as the dust cleared, the boy was the only one standing, looking around with a gun in his hand. How had he managed to get it?

Arthur noticed his head up, and quickly shook his own. The strange boy made his way over to the box, now dented and covered with dust, with the grace of a panther, stepping over debris and people. He paused before he reached the doors, however, looking toward all of the teenagers laying on the ground. 

Sighing, Arthur shook his head, pulling out a cell phone out of his pants and running over to the bleachers to grab the first aid kid out of the wall with a light touch. The small pistol made its way back into his pocket, the safety clicked on. 

“Coach?” Arthur spoke. The white metal box was placed next to the unconscious teacher. 

“Peter,” The boy said. “Could you check everyone for wounds? I’m going to call the cops.”

Peter nodded, snatching the box off of the floor and going first to check Ned, who had a gash on his head and hissed in pain when Peter applied the hydrogen peroxide. Michelle was unconscious next to him, dust and plaster covering her face and making her look almost as if she was a sleeping statue with the book on her chest. 

“The cops will be here in fifteen.” Arthur said, tucking his phone back into his pocket. Screaming echoed from outside as they heard the familiar sound of Iron Man’s repulsors. Peter watched as Arthur’s eyes went wide and the boy sprinted out of the room. A few minutes later, Spider-man swung into the fight, and the heroes were emboldened once more.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that Flash is dead, "Peter" is not actually Peter and Arthur was Petya in his new identity. More on our assassin boy in the next chapter!
> 
> Also, not me literally looking up what type of serial killer this is and getting a description. I blame Criminal Minds.

“What are we going to do about Spider-man?” Steve Rogers asked, shining his shield in the debrief room. 

“What about him?” Tony asked, distractedly flipping through different pages on his tablet, scribbling furiously 

“Natasha?” Cap asked, turning to the spy, hopeful that she might have some information. 

“I think he uses police scanners. He doesn’t have any regular patrols that we could stop him on. He’s a ghost.”

They sat there in contemplation for a bit. Spider-man wasn’t a threat to the avengers, but he was a threat in general. They had to either get him to sign the amended accords or figure out what he was. He did little things- helping old ladies cross the street, getting cats out of trees, stopping bank robberies. 

“Do we really need to bring him in?” Sam asked. Cap sighed, running his hand over his face. 

“The cops and the city are searching for him.” He replied. “He’s enhanced, so it’s better if we figure him out first, at least.” 

There had been a strange string of unsolved murders. They weren’t linked together at first because of the varying methods and victims. A gang-banger one night, his throat slashed, a lawyer the next, his lips blue. The killer was a mission-oriented, a highly organized one at that. 

Mission-oriented serial killers usually feel that they are doing society a favor by ridding it of certain people; these can include young women, prostitutes, drug dealers, or homosexuals, people they feel that society could do without. These killers are generally not psychotic. In fact, some see themselves as trying to change society. They always have a controlled crime scene, hence categorizing them as organized makes them much easier to track. These killers always go after specific victims, this makes them much easier to track down.

However, because this assassin was so capricious about his victims and method with no real signature, the police had originally pegged it as several different murders before pegging him as a new serial killer. Evidence was scarce, with no fingerprints or DNA, so they soon came to realise that whoever the killer was, they were skilled. Spidey’s webs had been found by police at the high-profile assassination of Wilson Fisk.

The webs usually dissolved within an hour or so, as they had learned when picking up the bogeys that Spider-man left behind. For the webs to still be there meant that he had been there either while the man was still alive or just after he died. Spider-man knew something about the killer. 

“Have the police had any luck tracking him down?” The cops were gunning after him too. 

“If I could just get some of his DNA, we could figure out his identity.” Bruce groaned. Tony snapped his fingers, shooting out of his seat to run into a different room. The entire team shared a look, and Steve began to rise from his chair to go after him. Tony raced back in, a plugged test tube in his hands. He panted, leaning his right hand on his knee in a slight squat as he held the glass tube aloft. 

“From when the assassin broke into the tower…” Natasha realised. Tony nodded, collapsing in the chair. 

“FRIDAY.” He said. “Can we run analysis on these and see if they match up with the webs from the police?”

Natasha rested her forehead against the back of her left hand, staring at her reflection in the glass table. When she had entered the room with the boy Clint had found at HYDRA, she couldn’t help but be struck with the similarity between the two of them. It was her own fault that she had gotten soft, that she had ignored the killer, only saw the boy. She’d let him go, and she’d let her carefully constructed boundaries down. 

You can’t change your past, no matter how much you run. Natasha knew that better than anyone. She realised that she had gotten caught up with the idea that she could pay it forward, like Clint had with her. Goodness, the situation in the hospital was nearly identical. She had run too, but she had staved off killing. She knew she had other skills. But Noir knew nothing else. 

He only knew how to kill, and he was just a boy. He was a ghost, he didn’t have any papers or certificates, but he was skilled enough to forge something believable. Training usually had them depend on their handlers for these things, but Noir was probably as paranoid as she was. He wouldn’t chance being found by going to a fast food job. 

“They’re contract kills, then.” Clint said, his eyes wide as he and Nat shared a look. 

“What are you talking about?” Wanda asked. 

“You remember that boy I recovered from the HYDRA base?” Clint leaned on his elbows onto the table, holding his right wrist in his left hand, almost as if he was trying to hold himself back. He breathed shakily, remembering the terror on the boy’s face and the shock on Natasha’s when she told him that Noir was the assassin after Tony. He’d given himself up and escaped. 

They explained this all to the Avengers, Natasha chiming in occasionally. When they got to the part of the story about Miami, Clint stopped, staring at Natasha in horror.  
“Nat.” He said. “If Noir is the assassin…” She stopped, her mouth open. In their distraction in looking for Noir, they had completely forgotten the most important information about him that they didn’t have on file. His identity had been confirmed when the fingerprints came up on the database in Miami. 

“Who’s the boy with no tongue that’s been with the Parkers?”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are spicing up, kids! I'm really excited for what comes next. Yes, the Wade in this is Wade Wilson, and the bar is the one from 'Deadpool'. I couldn't exactly remember the names, so I just substituted a few. Next is focusing on 'Peter' and May!

Petya watched in strange, childlike wonder as the twine burned, the flame eating at the strands. The blood hissed and disappeared in clouds of vapor that disappeared into the smoke. Crashes and screams came from the hubbub inside the building next to the alley, and he thanked his self-preservation instincts that he found jobs outside of the merc bar. 

The blood dripped onto the paper in his bag. He swore, trying to blot it away, but it was no use. It was the corner, anyway. There really was no need to panic. That’s what he told himself anyway, ignoring the burning evidence of his latest kill to swear and try to finish his chemistry homework. The name was partially obscured by red now, and he waited until it dried to rewrite ‘Arthur’. 

He made his way back into St. Margarets, taking his place behind the bar to begin his shift that he worked in exchange for boarding. Weasel slid a beer down to him that he passed to a scarred fellow that they called Gunther. He gave a weak smile, playing into the idea that ‘Arthur’ was just a kid from Queens who needed a job. 

Petya had been taught how to manipulate perceptions and probability to his favour. If he won over most people in the bar, he wouldn’t have to worry about his back. These guys would have it, even if they didn’t know who he really was and what he was capable of. He continued to clean the bar, keenly aware of his surroundings and the approaching man. 

“I’d like a blow-job.” A voice whispered to him. He didn’t bother looking up, continuing to wipe down the scratched and slightly burnt wood bar top. 

“Sorry, you’re not my type.” The response came easily after a few months of practice. 

“No, no, I’m gonna give it to Barry and say it’s from George.” Wade said, leaning on the ledge. Petya shook his head, letting his eyes twinkle with mirth as he complied and enjoyed the bloodbath of the ensuing fight. He finished up his shift by three in the morning, tidying up and mopping the floor. 

It was a strange way of life, something he had never had to do with the Red Room, but he found that he quite enjoyed the stability of having somewhere to go, something to do, no matter the instability of everything around him. 

The burner phone that he replaced every week or so beeped in his back pocket. He flipped it open as he walked to his apartment that he shared with a few guys from the bar. A job offer. Intrigued, Petya dialed the number, lifting the phone to his ear. 

“Тень.” The voice on the other end spoke in a slight Ukranian accent. They spoke of a woman who had failed to send her monthly to the mob. Her husband was a cop, and she had taken loans out with them during the recession. They would drop off the file on her at the library. “I heard about a new study on the Holy Grail.” 

More information was to follow, so Petya spent the night finishing his preparation. He indulged himself in the fantasy of being a normal teenager by finishing up his homework and sleeping an hour or so before he had to get up early enough to make the small commute from his apartment in Hell’s Kitchen to Midtown Tech.

“Hey, Arthur!” Ned called out as Petya joined the homeroom. Peter gave him a small smile, but he could practically taste the suspicion off the boy. MJ joined them, sketching in her journal. They had reached an unspoken agreement that Petya would not join the faces in that book. 

Sirens screeched up and down the street, and Petya checked his watch. He still had fifteen minutes until the bell rang. Pulling out his phone, he searched for the news, discovering that it was an armed robbery in progress. He’d better get out before they went into lockdown. 

“I’m going to the bathroom.” He whispered to Peter, slipping out of the classroom and running to the boy’s locker rooms where he had hidden his makeshift costume before running out into the sun to be Spider-man. 

As he was swinging along, Petya remembered the day he had decided to use his powers to help someone. He had just found a job, an apartment and was forging his background and information to apply to a school. A girl had her cat out on the windowsill, and he had reached out from the fire-escape to grab it for her. The joy he felt as they thanked him was something that could not be measured, so he resolved to continue it and make up for the people he had killed. 

“Spider-man!” A police officer cried out. There was a gun held to his head by a panting man in a mask. Petya approached slowly, dropping to the ground behind the ring of police cars. He kept his hands up, knowing if there was any sudden movements, the man would shoot. 

“Alright,” Petya said. “Can you put the gun down for me, buddy?” The robber’s hand shook as he yelled out some unintelligible sentence. The blood pounded in Petya’s head as he tried to formulate what to do. The officer choked as the man’s arm tightened around his neck. 

“Seriously, man. It doesn’t have to end like this. You did something stupid. We’ll work on it.” He tried to talk the man through it, his voice shaking. Petya had never been this close to losing someone. He was usually able to joke as he took care of petty crimes. 

“I-I can’t go back. I owe money.” The terror on the man’s face was reminiscent to those that Petya used to see on his targets. The man fired, and shots rang out across the block. Both men dropped to the ground, Petya standing paralyzed as he stared at the blood pooling on the sidewalk.   
He used to live for that look, dream of the adrenaline rush that he could when someone’s life was in his hands. Why was it making him so queasy now? Maybe it was a testament of his humanity. Before that, Petya wasn’t so sure he had any at all. 

He caught a glimpse of the officer as they took him away on the stretcher. It was the man who he had run into on the Subway so long ago. Parker. Peter’s uncle. The name hit a pang in him that he didn’t seem to recognize. The sounds of the city around him blended together as he focused in on his breathing, disappearing into an alley.


	19. Chapter 19

Peter had stood silently at Uncle Ben’s funeral. May had sobbed beside him, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything more than shock. May blamed Spider-man for not stopping the gun. Peter blamed himself for not being there. 

He stared at the photo of them on the mantle from the Stark Expo- the day that ‘Peter’ had died. May placed the take out down on the table. She smiled sadly, her exhausted face drowned in grief. 

“Do you want to hear about your parents?” He remembered them sometimes. His dreams were of a young girl, who he called Abby and chased around a farm. May talked about how they always lived in the city, and how his parents wished that they could have another kid. She showed him a photo of a young couple in their late twenties with a baby, pointing out a nose that she swore looked like his own. He couldn’t see the resemblance. That was strike one. 

He swallowed down the Thai food on the table, staring down at the worn wood. The way she talked about Peter sounded like she was talking about another life, another boy. It seemed as if she was trying to convince him that he was Peter. He wasn’t so sure. That was strike two.   
May continued to chat, perhaps trying to pretend that everything was ok. 

Peter laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, feeling oddly dysphoric. He hadn’t bothered to change the room, so the Tony Stark posters remained on the walls, joined by scattered crayon drawings of robots and Iron Man. It didn’t feel like his place to finally erase the boy who had lived there as a ghost for so long. 

What was before like? He wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. Had he been with a different family under a false name if he really was Peter Parker? Or was he someone else’s son, someone else’s brother? He would never quite fit in this puzzle, like a mismatched piece that was almost right, but didn’t exactly fill all the gaps. Was he part of another puzzle instead?

Peter opened his mouth and tried to speak, to say his name aloud, but it came out a jumbled mess. He closed it in shame, wondering what was wrong with him. He could still use his vocal words, but he could no longer enunciate the words. It seemed to him that the people who had taken him were still trying to silence him. He wondered the reason behind it. 

He and Ned had taken to learning Sign, but it was a slow process. He had no muscle memory for it, so his fingers jumbled up. Strangely, Peter somehow already knew Morse code, though he couldn’t pinpoint where from. 

He got up and looked out the window, relishing the feeling of the cold air in his face. The smell of the city wasn’t something he was used to, even after 4 months. Peter supposed that it would take a lifetime. There was this crazy car parked down outside the apartment building, and he could see some passersby admiring it. 

A knock sounded at the front door of the apartment, and he heard the floor squeaking as May made her way to it. There were murmured voices, so he sat up, straining to hear what they were speaking about. Only snippets were caught by his ear, but he recognized his name and the voice. It was Natasha, the woman who had found him in the woods and become friends with May while he was in the hospital. There was a man there too. He didn’t recognise the voice, but his curiosity got the best of him. 

Peter shook himself away, standing up shakily and wincing slightly. His hand darted to his side as the scars burned from the movement of his skin. Hissing in pain, Peter put his internal crisis at hold for some good old fashion eavesdropping.

“We’ve discovered something,” Natasha was saying. He leaned in closer to the door, trying to hear better. Something wasn’t right. He’d known that he was wrong from the minute he woke up in that hospital room and felt that indescribable loss in his chest. A part of him was missing, so he’d tried his best to find that piece for the past few months as people tried to tell him what it was. 

May seemed to want to pretend that the past ten years without her nephew never happened. The Peter she remembered was a noisy six year old, full of dreams of reaching for the stars and making friends- both robotic and real. She tried to act like he was the same little boy. He wasn’t even sure he was that little boy. Instead of that, May was saddled with a traumatized teenage amnesiac who couldn’t speak up. Maybe that’s what she wanted. 

Ben had been different. He had explained to Peter that while they had never planned for children back when his parents had died, they welcomed him into their home. They’d chuckled together over stories that almost felt like a different person. He’d treated Peter as an equal, almost. 

Peter glanced over to his desk, contemplating if he should work on his science due tomorrow. Almost immediately, the guilt over listening into a conversation slipped into his brain, and he grimaced. He stepped away from the door, intent on getting back into bed when he slipped on a dirty sock. Arms flailing, Peter fell down with a grunt, cringing at the pain from hitting the floor and the loud noise. 

“Peter?” Aunt May’s voice called, and he screwed up his eyes. “Can you come out here, please?”

Standing up with the help from his bedposts, Peter threw the offending piece of clothing into his closet with a wrinkled nose. He once again made his way to the door, wondering how tired he was going to be in the morning after being roped into a conversation with guests that he obviously couldn’t partake in. 

With a groan, Peter pushed the door open with his left hand and pushed his hair out of his eyes with the right. It’d gotten too long for his comfort. He’d have to ask May to cut it- she was always making jokes about how he didn’t have the “Parker Curls” that Ben and his dad did. The light offended his eyes that had adjusted to the dark of his room. He looked up and waved to the guests sitting on the old couch. 

It was Natasha, alright. The man next to her sent a pang of recognition through him that he didn’t have when he had seen May and Ben. He knew this man, knew him as more than what the tabloids and media portrayed him as. The man didn’t look up from May’s face, engaging her in conversation as Peter stared in astounded silence. Why did he feel like he knew Tony Stark?

“Peter!” Natasha greeted him warmly. There was something dangerous in her gaze, and it made his stomach swirl. He didn’t look away from Tony, standing by his bedroom door, tense and feeling like a child. Both May and Tony turned their attention to him, but their reactions were different. 

May seemed almost concerned, a touch of anxiety in her normally jovial gaze. There were lines on the sides of her eyes that gave her appearance nearly ten years. The blood had absconded from her face, leaving her nearly ashen as she looked at him. The worry didn’t seem to be directed towards him, so it wasn’t something that he’d done. 

Tony gaped at him, standing up and reaching forward with an outstretched hand. Peter was across the room, but he instinctively flinched. They couldn’t seem to break eye contact, and the seconds felt like minutes. Finally, Tony spoke, his voice rusty and full of emotion. 

“Harley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S RIGHT, BITCHES. "PETER" WAS HARLEY FUCKING KEENER ALL ALONG. 
> 
> On another note, I love to read your comments with your reactions and theories! Thanks for reading.


	20. Chapter 20

Petya’s fingertips turned white as he clenched the paper that told him of his new target. He’d smiled disarmingly at the librarian as he checked out the book on the Holy Grail, participating in the necessary small talk until he could leave. The information was folded carefully and placed into his pocket in case of emergency. 

He whispered her name in Russian, wondering if that would make it seem more real. Perhaps he was hoping that he could distance himself from this name, but he couldn’t. It was May Parker, Peter’s aunt and the wife of the police officer who had been killed. Peter hadn’t been in school for a week. Why would they want him to kill her? He searched any databases that he could, hoping to discover some trail. He decided on attacking during the weekend, spending time to gather information on May Parker and her habits. 

He read all about Peter, the boy who had gone missing at the Stark Expo back in 2009. Petya tracked down the interrogation tapes of May, watching for tells. Paranoia slipped into his head and anxiety screamed at him from his shoulder. 

Something was wrong. He knew this woman. He knew the story she was telling them. Petya was many things, some he'd labeled himself, some labeled by others. A killer. A monster. A child. A weapon. But the one that resonated the most with him, the one he most believed to be true was perhaps one of the very first things he'd ever called himself. A liar, and he knew one when he saw it. 

Petya was struck with a memory that seemed to be from before. He wasn’t sure if it was the paralyzing hope of knowing something, anything, that substituted May’s face in the blank canvas of the woman laughing in his memory. Hands shaking, Petya looked up Peter Parker on the computer that he had fixed up, his eyes frantic as he clicked on the image tab. 

Staring in horror at the old school photo of a little boy whose eyes reminded him of his own, Petya slumped back against the wall of his small room and covered his eyes with his hands, wishing he could erase what he had just realised. 

“Peter.” The more he said the name aloud, the more real it felt. Flash had taunted him with that information, hadn’t he? It’d been right in front of his nose. May had sold Peter- him, her nephew- to the Red Room for what? To pay off debts? Who knew.

Petya went out on the street, walking towards the subway that he could take to the Parkers’ apartment. He gave a bitter little laugh as he realised the irony of his self-given name. Maybe a part of him always knew.

He was getting ahead of himself with dreams of before. It wasn’t confirmed, and he knew better than to assume things without substantial proof. Petya let his fingers fiddle with the webshooter bracelets on his wrists when he boarded the train, ignoring the avoidance of looking at his face. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection as he swayed like a tree when the subway train began to move. 

Petya took a deep breath as if to stave off the irritation that came from drawing attention. Flash had left his mark with the knife that day, and the result was two long, jagged, puffy scars that traced the right side of his face and marred his eyelid. He wasn’t able to fully open his right eye, something he’d had to adjust to. Most people were nice enough not to mention them, save for the occasional little kid who got curious. 

On the outside, he must have looked like any teenager on his way to a friends house, illuminated by the harsh yellow of the lights. Petya was a teenager, alright, and his insides swirled with emotions that would send disgusting shivers down your body and draw a nauseous boiling into your stomach. 

He exited the railcar, adjusting the backpack on his back. Trying to avoid bumping into strangers, he squinted at the scintillating streetlights, taking in his surroundings. For as long as he could remember, he had been a number. Just a number. Nothing more in their eyes. They thought him to be a tool at their disposal. He was useful. More than useful, out of all the captives in the group, it was an unspoken knowledge that he was the best. And that knowledge came with certain benefits. He had long ago decided that if they thought him not worth a name, he would give himself one. Now that he had his real name, he wasn’t sure how he felt. 

His identity had been based on the fact that he created it himself. He was the one who persevered and fought through the training, beat the odds and that he was still alive. The boy had forged himself a name, a person out of the ashes, and when he was most broken down, he’d chosen to become Petya and succeed. 

Who was he now? Was he somebody’s nephew? Somebody’s son? Was he really Peter Parker? Could he truly be able to live a quiet life without looking over his shoulder to appease the demon that haunted his memories? There were so many questions and barely any answers. 

It was no matter if he had been named Peter once. He couldn’t be that innocent teenager who just wanted to be good. For goodness sake, he was being sent to assassinate his alleged Aunt! 

“Hey, Ned.” Petya said after pressing on his friend’s contact photo. “I’m worried about… Peter.”  
It felt strange to refer to the other boy as Peter, knowing what he did now. He’d drawn the conclusion that if Petya really was Peter Parker, “Peter” was most likely a local boy who fit his general age and body type that they then tortured and planted as a red herring. Petya was the name he had given himself, and he didn’t need to be called Peter to be true. 

“Yeah, dude. I am too.” Ned agreed quietly, rustling sounds coming from his side and small clicking. 

“What can you find on his background?” Petya could hear Ned furiously working at the computer. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to question why Petya wanted to know this. 

“Oh, shit.” 

“What’s up?”

“He was kidnapped.” Shock permeated Ned’s voice through the phone. 

“When did he go missing?” Petya pressed for information. 

“The Stark Expo back in 2009. Dude, that was almost ten years ago.” 

“The question is, where is he now?”


End file.
